Will Be
by P'Bantonox
Summary: It wasn’t enough that they had lived through the crash and the storm, oh no. Wilson still hadn't woken, and now the press was involved. There was more to be saved than just the lives of House's patients... House/Wilson friendship.
1. Car

**_Disclaimer- House isn't mine._**

-Chapter One-

.Car.

It wasn't that he knew it would happen. He'd just been feeling very depressed. About nothing in particular, just the accumulated weight of the events that had happened in the past few days. The day started much as any other, with his morning routine, eat, wash, throw some case papers in a tote bag. Get in the car. Turn the key. Throw the clutch in reverse, and back out of the driveway. Turn onto the highway, take the exit that went over the bridge.

He couldn't say that it wasn't his fault. Fighting off a hangover when driving, even as you struggle to keep your eyes open is not the best way to stay alive. The odds were significantly worse if you forgot to put on a seatbelt. The way his hands were shaking, he figured it was a miracle that he got even halfway across the bridge. Taking the back roads was a good idea, he had thought. No cars, save for the one red '65 Corvette going in the opposite direction as he was. But it was too far away to be of any worry to him. A thought nagged in the back of his mind. It was faint, but persistent. It had something to do with the medical training he had undergone, and pulling over. If he could take his eyes off of the scenery that he found so absorbing, just long enough to interpret his thoughts--

_Nausea… confusion… tremors…_ Dammit! He just couldn't think right.

_Lethargy… inability to think rationally…_ Wasn't he supposed to be driving on the right side of the road?

_Migraines…and…Avoid--something…_ He fumbled in his pocket for a small blue pill he knew had to be there. _Naproxen Sodium to alleviate headache… Abstain from further use of alchohol…_ Well it was too late for that.

Hey, wasn't that red car getting closer too fast?

_Avoid… _

_Avoid…_

_Driving._

_DUI._

_Pull over. NOW._

He had to get on the right side of the road. The other car was alarmingly close.

_Twenty seconds. _Three-quarters of the way across the bridge. He yanked on the steering wheel, spinning it to the right.

The other car had swerved to the right as well, trying to avoid hitting him.

_Fifteen seconds._ Dammit! _Left! Left! _He stomped his foot on the brake pedal, pushing it as he could, to get it to the floor. _Not enough time. Going to hit._ Who was in the other car? Would they be all right? _Seatbelt. NOW!_ Fumbling with his left hand, he reached behind the seat, grasping for the thin fabric belt that could save his life.

_Ten seconds._ His fingertips brushed what he hoped was the seatbelt, and pulled it forwards, in front of him. It was. He grasped the metal buckle and drove it down towards the slot. It connected, but didn't snap in place.

_Nine seconds. _He tried again, this time, with his right hand. The buckle slid in slid in smoothly, falling in with a light _click._

_Eight._ The other car was close enough that he could see some of the other person's face through the glare on the windshield.

_Seven._ Unshaved. Gaunt. Shocked. The man obviously recognized him.

_Six._ The glare was receding.

_Five._ Blue eyes were open wide, showing a fear they had never worn before.

_Four._ Oh. God, no. He knew that face.

_Three. _House.

_Two. _The passenger's side scraped against the guardrail of the bridge, and the car began to spin, the wheels riding up a little on the curb.

_One._

_**TBC…**_

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_**Author's note- Not much to say after writing this. More chapters to come, obviously. New style of writing I'm using. Short. Sorry. Next chapter longer.**_

_**-P'Bantonox.**_


	2. Crash

**_Disclaimer- I will never own House. And it's driving me mad._**

_**Note- This chapter starts from the beginning as House, and progresses past where the other chapter left off.**_

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-Chapter Two-

Crash

House was in a good mood. He was free. Forget his leg, when he was in his '65 Camaro, he was as fast as he wanted to be. It was like how he used to take long runs in the woods, pre-infarction. Thanks to the Arnello brothers, and a little incident Vogler had termed as 'graft',he had the car of his dreams.

House hummed along to the Rolling Stones tune on the radio for a while _(not a real favorite, but oddly comforting)_, driving along the deserted backroads. He was tired. Last night had been more than enough to convince him that Cuddy hated him. She'd made him stay up all night-

_House growled at Cuddy. "Why the hell do you want me to do their paperwork for? That's why I hired them!" He jerked his head over towards Chase and Cameron. "And why do you not want me to treat Andrea Cathanis? You're the one who made me take on this particular case."_

_Lisa Cuddy shook her head. "I still want you to work on this case. But lately, you haven't been doing that much, productivity-wise. Do your own paperwork, for once, or do three extra hours of clinic duty, every day, for the rest of the month. Your choice."_

_Twirling his cane with his fingertips, House glared up at her. "Productivity? I've been here in my office all week, trying to figure out what this woman has!"_

_Cuddy coolly ignored his shouting, and opened the door to the hallway. "Do the paperwork."_

-And suddenly, after remembering that, House didn't feel so light-hearted. He slapped his hand against the dashboard, turning the radio off. He reached into his pocket to pull out his bottle of Vicodin, and paused realizing something. _The tote bag with everything in it was still at home!_ He hit the brakes, and shifted into reverse, executing a three-point turn that ended with his car facing the way he'd came. He was gripping the steering wheel hard enough that his knuckles were turning white, but he didn't notice. Moving into third gear, he pressed down on the gas pedal. As the rumble of the engine grew in intensity, so did his angry remarks, until he was barking out swears in every language that he could think of.

He was remarking in Portuguese about the contrast in size between Dr. Cuddy's head and posterior, and how it related to her stubbornness, when it occurred to him that he had missed the turn.

"Merde. Kusou. Schade." He dropped the clutch directly into reverse, wincing at the shuddering protest that was emitted from somewhere within the gearbox. _That noise isn't normal, is it?_

This time, he remembered to turn onto the bridge. An odd movement ahead of him caught his eye. There was someone else driving on the bridge. _That car looks… familiar. _Driving towards him. On the wrong side of the road. _Probably European. _On a second look, he noticed that the car was weaving from side to side. _Drunk. _Well. Whoever it was seemed to be very good at staying on one side of the road while _completely_ sloshed. But they kept driving straight at House's car. _They weren't even hitting the brakes._ He slammed his fist on the horn, then pulled to the left to pass the other car, flooring the brake pedal. They pulled over to the same side to avoid hitting, too. _Shit. Going too fast. There's not enough time to turn away. Going to crash._

_Ten seconds. _House spun the steering wheel sharply to the right in a futile attempt to turn the car enough.

_Nine. _He grabbed the handbrake and pulled it back. Nothing happened.

_Eight._ He looked down at the dashboard, racking his brain for some way to slow the car. Reverse. From third to reverse. That had to be his best chance.

_Seven._ He shifted down to reverse, and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

_Six._ It wasn't enough.

_Five._ Time seemed to slow, everything moving as if held back by some unseen hand. Droplets of coffee splashing out of the cup descended to the floor. His cane, previously propped up in the passenger's side seat, arced through the air like a diver attempting a perfect dive. The acrid smell of burning rubber filled the air, and the screech of brakes was deafening.

_Four._ House looked up. He was now close enough to make out the face of the other driver.

_Three. What the hell?_

_Two. Wilson?_

_One._

The cars collided with the snap of plastic giving way, followed by a sharp, crunching impact. House felt the breath knocked out of his lungs, and gasped, as a thin, fiery line of pain traveled up his left leg. The momentum of the crash carried him forwards in his seat, and he lurched forwards, smashing into the steering wheel. His legs slipped out from under him and connected with the underside of the dashboard. The damaged tissue on his right thigh exploded into pain. He threw his head back and screamed, his every thought fixed on the blinding, white hot agony that threatened to consume his world. Mind fixed only on his survival, he fought his way back to consciousness. He drew in an unsteady breath, and a sharp jab shot through his chest. He clenched his teeth, but the scream broke through anyways, a long, sobbing howl that sent fresh waves of pain and called the darkness to swallow him again. This time, he knew he wouldn't be able to escape it. He struggled to see through the haze that was rapidly obscuring his vision , looking down at his watch. _Seven fifteen,_ he thought dimly,_ seven fifteen._ Then his vision faded, and was swallowed by the deep chasm of unconsciousness.

* * *

House slowly opened his eyes, wincing as the bright morning light momentarily blinded him. For a moment he was disoriented, and he sat up to look around. The resulting wave of pain made it all too apparent.

Being careful not to move to quickly, he reached into his pocket, and pulled out his ever-present bottle of Vicodin. _Half for the pain, and half for me._ He leaned back in the driver's seat and closed his eyes, waiting for the pill to take effect. Slowly, the pain began to recede, replaced by an all-too crisp awareness of his surroundings. He glanced down at his watch. He had been unconscious for twelve minutes.

_Dammit! What about Wilson?_ House looked around. Neither Wilson nor his car were in sight. The crash had occurred at the end of the bridge, near a small culvert. A cloud of smoke rose from somewhere off of the road.

Quickly, he checked to make sure that he wasn't seriously injured. He had a long, shallow gash on his left shin. _Not deep, but it still hurts like hell. _The worst injuries he had were his head and chest. He had a cut over his temple, and whenever he took a deep breath, a javelin of pain shot through his chest. He was covered in various cuts and scratches, and he was sure that later, he would be mottled with bruises, too. He was thankful that he had taken his Vicodin, since he wasn't too keen on dealing with his motley assortment of injuries at the moment.

House forced himself to lean over and pick up his cane off of the floor. Although bending over increased the Vicodin-muffled throbbing in his chest to a sharp, piercing pain, he continued forward until his fingertips met the smooth wooden handle. Drawing it back to him, he bumped the back of his head on the steering wheel.

He took a moment to rest, and then looked over the car door. Not a car in sight to flag down for help. It was ironic, since he had taken this road _because _it was deserted, so that he could speed. His cell phone and pager were in his tote bag, _dammit_. If it had been any other day, if he had been less rushed, he would have taken the time to clip them to his belt. No doubt Wilson would have _his_ cell phone. That man never forgot _anything_.

House grabbed the door handle, and attempted to open the door. It was stuck. Luckily, he had kept the convertible roof open, and he simply lifted himself up, and swung his bad leg over the door, following it with the healthy one. He sat atop the door, before letting himself slip to the ground. This was a mistake. As soon as his right leg hit the ground, the dull pain blossomed into agony again, and he dropped to his knees, gasping, trying not to cry out.

After a minute, the pain dissipated. _Well, that was stupid. Really should have gotten down slowly._ Levering himself to his feet with his cane, he limped down the road to the crash site. Glimmers of light caught his eye, and he turned to look. A long trail of broken glass and plastic stretched down the final ten feet of the bridge, and within three feet of the end, disappeared through an area where there had once been a rope guardrail. A feeling of fear began to override his pain. House followed the line of debris, his growing dread, stronger with every step he took. At the edge, he forced himself to look down. The road ended in a steep hill. Some thirty feet below, was a stretch of grass bordering a riverbank. There, Wilson's car sat, emitting heavy clouds of black smoke, and small yellow flames licking out from under the hood. _It was on fire. _

"Shit!" House looked down at the car, his mind fixated only on the thought that his friend was in there, asphyxiating, while he had been fussing over his own injuries. _How long have I wasted?_

He looked down, trying to formulate a path that allow him to reach the car safely. All that came to mind was to slide down the slope as best he could, squatting for better balance. His leg allowed no flexibility, so this was his only option. He sat back on his heels, poised on the edge of the hill, holding his cane in his hand like a paddle. He pushed off with the cane, and started his slide downhill.

Almost immediately, his right thigh cramped up, and he began to lose his balance. He used his cane as a brake to make up for the weight shift, dragging the end in the dirt by his side. When he reached the bottom, he collapsed onto his side, pulling his legs up into the fetal position, and waited for his leg to become usable again.

He stood up before the pain had subsided, limping over to the car. Although only the engine was on fire, the heat was still unbearable. House squinted through the smoke, and then shed his coat, dropping it behind him. He then removed his light blue undershirt, leaving a white t-shirt exposed. He grasped the undershirt, and tore two long strips off, and limping over to the riverbank, dipped them in. He then wrung the excess moisture out, and tied one over his nose and mouth like a bandanna. _Do-it-yourself_ _gas mask. Fun._ He draped the other over the back of his neck. Then, he returned to the car, and hooking the door handle with the head of his cane, pulled it open. He leaned into the car, and reached over to unbuckle Wilson's seatbelt. His fingertips touched the hot metal buckle, and he swore as it burnt his fingertips. He reached farther, and pressed the release button. The seatbelt slid off of Wilson, and behind the driver's seat. House pushed Wilson forwards in his seat, and hooked his arms under his friend's, leaning back and pulling him from the car. He managed to drag him about nine feet from the burning vehicle before his leg gave out and he fell to the ground. He lay there for a moment, before rolling himself over, and crawling over to Wilson. Eyes still watering from the smoke, he fumbled with the buttons on his friend's sleeve, and grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse. House swore again. His own hands were shaking so much that he couldn't get an accurate reading. He tried again, forcing himself to be still. _Nothing… Wait- there!_ There was a weak pulse.

House lay back in the grass, relief flooding over him. Wilson was alive.

* * *

**_Hey. Finally, I found inspiration. My muse decided that I should write a new story. Well, I'm not so keen on juggling three stories. So I worked out an agreement. Sort of. I'll finish this story before I write my newest. Don't worry, I'll keep updating Security, too. Yes, my deal with the muse included my relinquishing of my spare PC time to the typing of my stories. So expect more updates. Heheh. Chained to my keyboard- Just kidding! J/k, j/k, j/k! (My muse is reading my every word over my shoulder.)_**

_**P'Bantonox.**_


	3. Waterlogged

_**Disclaimer- I don't own House. If I suddenly did, I'd have an unexpected heart attack from the overwhelming surprise, and then wouldn't be able to update any more. So it's better this way, I suppose. **_

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_**Note- This chapter takes place at the exact second that Chapter Two ended. Heheheh. Yeah, you can time it. It's accurate.**_

-Chapter Three-

Waterlogged

House let James Wilson's wrist slip from his fingertips, a warm feeling of relief flooding through him. Wilson was alive. His own self absorbed procrastination hadn't cost him his friend's life. There had been a moment, standing at the top of that hill and looking down at the burning wreck, when he felt that his only link to the world had been broken. But here he sat, pant legs soaked with the morning dew, sitting next to an unconscious Wilson, his own weight distributed uncomfortably on his bad leg, and nine feet from a burning car. And all he felt was relief.

With a loud crack, reminiscent of a cap gun, something within the engine of the car gave way, and the flames issuing from beneath the hood leapt taller for a second. House was jerked from his reverie. The heat emanating from the engine increased, and he put up a hand to shield his face. He had to move Wilson away from the car. Leaning over, he picked his cane up out of the grass, and stood up, limping over to his coat and torn-up shirt. Pulling the coat on, he shoved what was left of the blue undershirt into a spacious pocket, and returning to Wilson's side. He had to move Wilson. At least thirty feet away, maybe more. If the car exploded, as it was likely to do, he wanted to be well out of the range.

House bent over, and rolled Wilson over, trying to get him to a position he could pick him up from. He managed to loop one arm under Wilson's knees ,and the other, behind his neck, but when he tried to lift him, he found he couldn't. His leg wouldn't allow any weight to be put on it, never mind the added weight of Wilson. He tried again, this time, dropping his cane on the ground, and attempted to prop his friend up enough that he would be able to drag him to safety. Again, House felt his weight shift to his right leg and he gritted his teeth, knowing what would happen next.

The pain came in an intense wave that blocked out the rest of his senses. Vaguely, he was aware that he had lost his balance and fallen to the ground. He knew he must be screaming, but he couldn't hear himself. Nothing registered. Blinding agony was devouring him alive, leg first. At some point, he noticed that he could see again. That he could think. That he could feel his leg. _The neurological floodgate labeled Pain is closing, to make way for Sight, and Hearing_. He wasn't screaming anymore. He was huddled over his leg, a growling moan deep in his throat. He grabbed his cane, and forced himself to sit upright.

"Jimmy, why are you so damn _heavy?_" House muttered, the first words he'd spoken in over twenty minutes. He wished he hadn't said them. Now that he had broken the silence, it felt too quiet.

He attempted to lift Wilson again, leaning over, and the responding stab of pain told him that it was impossible. He could not lift him. He dropped to his knees, mostly because of his leg's inability to hold him up, but also, because he had no reason to fight the lethargy that stole over him. His backup gas mask, a wet rag, slipped off of the back of his neck, threatening to fall inside his t-shirt.

"_Dammit!_" House grabbed the moist strip of cloth, and balled it up, throwing in as far as he could with a growl of frustration. It landed in the river, and began floating downstream. He paused, all of his anger and resentment melting from his features. He had an idea. The river. Getting him to the river would be much easier than trying to drag him. The current would carry them downstream. In the water, Wilson would be practically weightless.

It was fifteen feet from where House knelt to the river. He leaned over, and rolled Wilson over onto his stomach. Then onto his back, and over again, slowly making progress towards the riverbank. _Ten feet. Five. Three. One._

House paused, James Wilson lying prone at the water's edge. He stepped over him, and into the river, wincing a little as the cold water seeped through his socks, and rushed into his shoes. He stepped back a little farther, and almost lost his balance, as he slid further in. From the shore to the riverbank, it was almost a direct drop-off, from two feet deep, to almost five, in a little over two steps. When he was about waist-deep, he reached out, and tugged on Wilson's arm. He toppled into the water with the grace of a ragdoll slipping from a shelf to the floor, and began to sink below the surface, but House reached out, keeping his head from going under.

Once they were in, water up to House's shoulders, he shifted his hold on Wilson, getting a better grip on his cane. He reached underwater with it, slipping it through a belt loop almost with the air of some great samurai sheathing his sword. He would not need it here. House returned his arm to the task to holding Wilson's face above the water, and leaned forwards, to take his first free step in over seven years.

The buoyancy of the water would reduce the amount of weight that taking a step put on his leg. So why did he hesitate? Years of pain, of avoiding the weight shift that would send him spiraling into blinding agony? Fear of failure, that he wouldn't be able to move on his own? Or dependency? Something within him didn't _want_ to be free. Did he fear the loss of his cane, the smooth grip in his hand that assured him of his mobility? Would he long to be released from the numb, calming awareness that signified to him, Vicodin?

"Hell, it doesn't really matter now, does it?" House leaned all of his weight on his left leg, and stepped forwards. The water flowed past him as he stood, all weight placed on his right leg. Not a protest from his right thigh. A grin broke over his face, and he took another step. At first his gait was lopsided, the absence of his cane apparent. Soon, however, he was making good time, almost thirty feet away from the burning car. He was nearly under the bridge now, and here the water was deeper. _I might be able to walk underwater, but really. I doubt I can swim._ The water level rose to his chin. He took a deep breath, and continued on. The water level rose steadily, until it closed over his head. He held his breath, arms above his head to keep Wilson's face above the surface. House opened his eyes, ignoring the sting that the water brought. Things swam and floated by, fish, leaves, and formless objects too blurry for him to see. Where the shadow of the bridge ended, the river seemed to return to four feet. He was nearly there.

Fifteen feet stood between him and another breath of fresh air. One foot before the other, he reveled in his newfound freedom, yet trying hard not to miss the act of breathing. He was feeling a little lightheaded now, and carrying Wilson seemed a much bigger burden than he had thought before.

His body felt weak. Now there was no denying it. He needed air, and soon. His lungs felt tight, and small bubbles escaped from between his lips. There was perhaps only nine feet to the shallows. The tightness in his lungs grew into a constricting pressure, forcing the stale air from his lungs, bubble by bubble. His heart was beating loudly in his ears. He let his mind wander, attempting to distract himself from his discomfort. _Isn't it unusual. Only a small percent of the air we breathe is actually used. And yet my body trying to tells me I'm out of air. Wasn't it with me when I read that?_ A sharp ringing appeared in his ears, accompanying the familiar gray edges of tunnel vision. His sight was beginning to fade. Unconsciousness would inevitably follow.

He was at the end of his limits. He felt as if his lungs were about to explode. Disjointed thoughts rambled through his mind, and things made very little sense to him. _Brain's not… getting enough oxygen… functions are limited… _All that mattered, all that penetrated was of the importance was putting one foot before the next. Of keeping walking. The ringing intensified. Gone was the low rumble of being underwater, the sound of his heartbeat. Everything was fading, fading…

Gravel crunched underfoot, and it felt as if he was stepping up. Wilson wasn't above House's head anymore, he was slightly in front of front of him, and it felt as if he were getting heavier with every step. Then House's head broke the surface of the water, and the air rushed from his lungs. Vaguely his mind protested, but his body needed oxygen too much. He coughed, and drew in the sweet new air in gasping lungfuls. _Safe._ Yet, delayed only by the breath of new air, the darkness persisted. He waded over to the bank, barely seeing it, and fell to his knees on the sand. He grasped Wilson under the arms, and pulled him onto the shore. He was still struggling to drag him further when he passed out again.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a mosquito, hovering above his face. It flew several passes above his head before deciding that the palm of his right hand was a better source of sustenance. There, it alighted, and began to feed. Its existence was short-lived, as the other hand of the pair came down on it almost immediately.

"Damned mosquito." the owner of the hand growled. "That's my cane hand. That's gonna _hurt_ after a few hours of walking." He sat up, and looked around. Wilson lay on the beach, not far from the water. House groaned. His clothes were still very wet, and he had a splitting headache. The amount of water dripping from his hair into his eyes told him that he hadn't been out for long. He looked around for his cane, then remembered that it was in his belt loop. He slipped it out, fitting the smooth handle into his palm. The bug bite was almost directly underneath. _Great. And it already itched._

He stood up, leaning heavily on his cane, and walked over to Wilson's side. He knelt down and felt for a pulse. It was much stronger than before, beating steadily at the rate of someone asleep. House looked down at Wilson. He was lucky to not have gotten a concussion…

…_Concussion- I'm an idiot!_ House shook his head. He'd forgotten to check and see if Wilson was okay, neurologically speaking. He started to reach into his pocket for his pen-light- and hesitated. Of course he wouldn't have it. His bag was at home. Which meant his gear was at home, too. He leaned over, and began searching Wilson's pockets, instead.

He pulled out the small flashlight, and twisted it on. He then lifted one of Wilson's eyelids, and shone the bright beam in.

"Reactive pupils…" he murmured, pocketing the light, and paused, as the distinctive clink of metal hitting metal sounded. He slid his hand into his pocket—and pulled out two pen-lights.

_Oh. I used mine this morning to find the keys when I dropped them behind the bookcase. _House slipped both back into his pocket, and pinched Wilson on the arm, who groaned, and turned away. _Response to external stimuli…_ House clapped loudly by Wilson's ear. Wilson flinched._ …Just fine. I'd better not wake him, though. For once, I'll let him sleep. I can't believe I'm doing this._

House stood up and limped over to the concrete supports of the bridge. He followed the wall over to the hillside. It was just as steep as the one he had previously slid down. The slope on the other side of the river was no better.

Resigned to the fact that he would not be able to get back to the road without Wilson's help, he sat down against the concrete wall and closed his eyes.

He was asleep within minutes.

_**Author's note- Hey! Chapter Three is up! FINALLY! Aah! My muse threatened that if I didn't get it done soon, I'd get hurt. So here it is. Seriously, if my muse wasn't such a good inspiration, I'd get anti-muse spray. **(Sorry! Sorry! I'm joking!)_

_**Thanks to all who reviewed,**_

**IceStar4621**, **glarbinator**, **DIY Sheep**, **Becky O'Calahan**, **StormyWolfBowler**, **jujubee10323**, **gh2005**, **imanaddict**, **Aqua Mage**, **Alipeeps**, **AtreidesHeir**, **Ataea**, **XxPyromaniacxX**.

_**Thanks again to all. Without you guys, there'd be no reason for me to write. After all, a writer needs readers, to write. Right?**_

_**P'Bantonox.**_


	4. Conciousness

**_Disclaimer- I do not own House, nor will I, until Cuddy takes one of House's Vicodin, and Wilson kisses Stacy. That is to say, probably never._**

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-Chapter Four-

Conciousness

Consciousness was not welcome. The mere thought that it was not coming quick enough was, it its own way alarming to him. He felt oddly detached. What the hell was he doing here?

He took a deep breath, and immediately knew this to be a mistake. A searing pain shot through his chest, and he gasped, bringing another fiery spear. It felt as if some malevolent being was drawing his lungs out through a small hole in his skin. Another wave of pain washed over him. That was when his mind finally caught up with what he was feeling, and he screamed. This itself brought more agony, and his scream soon devolved into sobbing moans. He opened his eyes, blinking as he was momentarily blinded what sun peeked out from behind ominous-looking clouds

Seemingly from nowhere, a figure stood over him, blocking out the bright rays.

"Don't move. Take short, even breaths." It was House.

_House._

_ThecalllastnighthangovermorningdrunkdrivingwrongsideseatbeltredCamerocellphonenocontrol goingtocrashtwosecondsohgodnoitsHouse!_

Wilson's eyes widened and he choked on one of his sobs, sending himself into a coughing fit that ended in a scream. The world began to dissolve into darkness, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sweet release that unconsciousness would bring.

"Jimmy, stay awake." House's voice floated back to him through the haze of pain that his world had suddenly become enveloped in. He wanted to let go…

A spray of water flew into his face, and he sputtered, his eyes flying open. House was standing to his right, hands dripping wet.

"Calm down, or you'll kill yourself."

Wilson forced himself to take small, short breaths. Almost immediately, the searing pain in his chest decreased to a sharp throbbing. He felt sick.

"You have a couple of broken ribs." House sat down nearby, and popped open his bottle of Vicodin. He downed two, then offered the other to Wilson. "If you don't mind taking it dry."

Wilson looked up at the small, white tablet. He'd chastised House enough times for his addiction that he couldn't remember them all. It wasn't because it was a drug. As a doctor, he'd prescribed medicines to countless patients. It was because, perhaps, he blamed it for the way that House had changed after he began taking medication. Something was different, something was missing. Everything had changed. And House never laughed any more. To mock, sometimes, but never a laugh that rang with joy.

Still, Wilson signed the prescriptions, one every few weeks, for House's Vicodin. And here he was, being offered one. And he wanted it.

"Yes," he whispered. "I'll take it."

House raised his hand above Wilson's mouth. "Open wide." He let the pill slip from his fingers.

It was chalky, bitter. For all of his years of being a doctor, and he still had trouble swallowing pills. He choked it down, and looked up at House, now sitting on the ground by his side.

A flicker of lightning appeared, somewhere off in the distance, and a roll of thunder followed not too long after. The sky was now completely covered in dark clouds. House sighed. "Someone should be coming soon. A smouldering wreck in the road is pretty hard to miss. I couldn't find your cell phone, so…" He looked up at the sky, where ominous gray clouds were. "Just… don't move. Vicodin works faster when it doesn't have to override extra pain." House pulled a penlight from his pocket, and shone it into Wilson's eyes, one before the other.

Wilson flinched away at the light, the bright beam adding an extra stab to his headache, and he closed his eyes, turning away. He was surprised when he felt a light, firm grip under his chin, turning his face up.

"Wilson, open your eyes."

He complied, ignoring his headache as best he could, and looked past the light, into deep blue eyes not very far from his own. There was no hint of the mocking indifference that House usually wore, only concern and fear, overshadowed by pain, and dulled by the painkiller. And something else…

Before he could figure out what it was, House interrupted his thoughts, asking him a series of questions that Wilson recognized as mapping out his neurological functions, and checking for a concussion. Wilson replied with what textbook answers he could remember.

House looked at him, a smile flickering at the edges of his mouth. "The idea is to figure out how what condition _you're_ in, not how H.B. Smith, M.D. was feeling when he wrote that. Or do you share those views?"

"It's pretty accurate…" Wilson replied weakly.

"…Although he's been proven insane since."

Wilson laughed out loud, then regretted it as it brought the searing pain back, sharp and overwhelming, though not in full force. The Vicodin was beginning to work already.

House turned to him and began to talk, as the first few drops of rain began to fall.

* * *

**_Author's note- I'm sorry to say, but the end of the story is in sight. Don't try to say I'm cutting the story off, 'cause I'd planned it to end soon. Not this chapter, not the next, but there will probably be only seven chapters to the story. Well, I was going to end it at six, but my Muse assures me that the _**_**AK-47 aimed at my head works. And I believe it.**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	5. Flood

**_Disclaimer- I don't own House. Wow. That sounds kind of… possessive. I don't own him? …Well, it is a free country, but… grr. My House. My precious… (do I need a disclaimer for that LotR reference?) Well, whatever. Read on, Macduff.

* * *

_**

-Chapter Five-

Flood

His eyes snapped open, and he took in his surroundings. His first thought was that it was raining heavily. His second was that he had fallen asleep, dammit. He'd been talking to Wilson for a while, anything to keep his friend's mind off of the pain. Eventually, Wilson had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. He had been annoyed that Wilson had drifted off; he could have used the conversation to help keep awake, but House had promised himself that he would not do the same. He would watch him until help came, and keep him safe from anything that threatened…if anything threatened. Apparently, he'd messed up.

He looked up at the sky, and frowned. The clouds had taken on a greenish tinge, and the rain was coming down in sheets. Every few minutes, a streak of lightening shot across the sky, followed by a roll of thunder. Curious as to how far off the storm was, he counted the seconds between the flash and report.

_One, one thousand… Two, one thousand… There. Four miles away and it's looking this violent already. Great. As if I wasn't in enough trouble._

He looked at the riverbank, noting that the water level had risen a good couple of inches. The river was flooding. Where they sat, they were about three feet above the water level. Hopefully, that would be enough.

He considered waking Wilson, but immediately decided against it. He needed to sleep through as much of the pain as possible. He'd been through a lot already, and the strain on his system must be enormous. Instead, House looked down at his watch, wiped water off of the display, and checked it again. It was quarter after one.

Carefully, he rose to his feet, and, with the help of his cane, limped through the driving rain to the riverbank. He drew a long line in the sand with the end of his cane, stretching from the water's edge to where the grass started, then drew eight smaller lines across it, one every foot or so. He would gauge how fast the river rose by this. If the rain didn't wash it away first.

He limped back to Wilson's side, and sat, watching the curls of water swirl past where he sat, mottled with ripples from countless airborne droplets. Occasionally, a stick or even a log would float by, swept towards and past him in little more than a few seconds. He reached into his pocket, and drew out his bottle of Vicodin, attempting to open it. His wet hands kept slipping off of the lid, but he eventually got it open. He swallowed one and closed the bottle, trying his best to make sure no water got inside. Despite his best efforts, a little rain had gotten in, luckily, it was not enough to melt the pills. He slipped it back in his pocket, and glanced at the clouds. It had gotten darker, and that meant that worse weather was coming. The horizon was a pea-green color, and the wind was rising, whipping the rain against his face in sheets that stung and ran into his eyes. Squinting, he examined the marks in the sand from where he sat.

_Only five of them left, and it's only been a half-hour. This isn't good. If it gets to three, I'm waking Wilson, pain or no pain. We need to find a way out of here. _

A crack of thunder sounded, deafeningly close, and he flinched, cursing himself for being so nervous. Restless, he stood again. He limped over to the hillside and looked up. It was too steep to climb, about ten or fifteen feet high and covered in loose dirt and mud. Even Wilson without his broken rib would be unable to scale it. Experimentally, House poked his cane about a foot in, and was rewarded with a shower of debris. He swore, and dropped the cane, trying to wipe the excess mud off of himself. He soon gave up. _This coat was ruined anyways._

Far off in the distance, he heard a sound he'd been hoping to hear. An engine. By the sound, a motorcycle. He turned back to the bridge, and looked up to where the road would be.

"Hey! Stop! Down here! Help!" he shouted. Never before had he been so happy to hear that sound approaching. "My friend needs help! He needs to get to the hospital!" The engine was close. Soon the person would see the wreck, and stop. They'd hear House shouting, and call for help. They'd stop soon. Right about… now.

But the engine did not idle or stop. It grew in volume, then began to fade, as the rider passed them, and continued into the distance.

"Hey! Stop! Hey! _Hey! Come back here, you son of a bitch! Come back!_" House dropped to the ground in shock.

_How could--_

_--How could someone miss my car? It's bright red! _

_It was in plain view…_

_That might have been our only--_

_No. Don't say it._

_Dammit. Now what? Just sit here and wait?_

_No._

House got up again, and grabbed hold of a rock embedded in the hill. He tugged on it, experimentally, to see if it would hold his weight, and amazingly enough, it did. It wasn't big enough for much more than a handhold, though, and he stepped back again, searching for another, closer to the ground. He saw one, not more than a foot or so away from the other. There were a few rocks sparsely scattered up the hill. Eyes flicking from one to the next, he was already formulating a way up.

As if reminding him that he could not put this plan in action, his leg began to ache fiercely. To put weight on it would be sheer torture. He turned away, feeling defeated. Every plan he could think of involved _not being an effing cripple! _He swore, preparing to sit back down again, and caught sight of Wilson. Rain ran in rivulets down his face, and his clothes were matted to his body. Despite the fact that he looked relatively sound, House was sure that if he checked, he would find a dark, bruised area blossoming across his chest as blood collected under the skin…

He shook the image from his mind, looking back up at the hill. If help wouldn't come, he'd have to go for help. _Damn the hill and damn the pain._ He took out his pills and swallowed another. That would at least help a little. Tucking his cane in his belt, he reached for one rock, and lifted his good leg off of the ground, finding a foothold. He grabbed blindly with his other hand, trying to grab another rock before his balance shifted and he ended up falling on his bad leg. His questing fingers found a hold, and he grasped it tightly. Here came the hard part. He lifted his right leg, gritting his teeth just from flexing the muscle. He found a ledge, and relaxed. Both feet were off of the ground, but to get higher, he would have to put all of his weight on his right leg, stressing the damaged muscle even more. He had tried using his right leg before, giving up his cane for the odd chance that he might be able to stand on his own. He had always failed before, but this was not for him. Before, he had always stopped when it hurt too much, given in to the injury that ruled his life. It was his friend's life now, that he was concerned about.

He leaned to the right, testing the muscle. A flash of pain shot up it, and he stopped for a moment. _Idiot. Giving up?_ He swore aloud, and leaned over, steeling himself for the pain. It was worse than he had expected, dizzying waves washing over him, his vision fading into white. Still, he reached out for a handhold he could not see, lifted his left foot for a ledge he hoped was there. He felt his leg beginning to weaken, and shifted his weight to his left. His other foot met with a rock, and stood firm. Gasping, he switched all of his weight to his left leg, feeling the tension decrease.

His vision began to clear, and he looked down. He was a little over three feet off of the ground. It wasn't too late to stop, go back down…

_No._

He lifted his right leg, hissing as it tensed up again, but put his weight onto it anyways. Once again, he tried to ignore the waves of agony, focusing on the rain that hit his face in sharp sheets. His leg was cramping up, the muscles beginning to spasm. Just a little farther. Just a little. He must be about halfway up. Jabs of agony, seemingly mimicking the lightning in the sky, flashed up his side. His left leg still had not found him somewhere to stand. If he didn't find a rock soon, he would not be able to hold on any longer. Desperate, he kicked at the dirt, digging his foot into the hill itself. It would not hold his weight for long, but it would at least relieve the pressure. He opened his eyes, looking for another foothold for his left foot. He spied one, farther than he deemed it safe to lean on his damaged leg. He was only about four or five feet from the ground, and there were no other safe-looking rocks that he could see. It was a long shot. Wishing, hoping, he shifted and reached up, as high as he could. Almost there…

His muscle, strained from all of the exertion he had been putting on it, sent one final distress message of excruciating pain, and gave way, his leg crumpling beneath him. He scrabbled frantically at the dirt, desperately trying to reach the handhold. His fingertips caught at the rock, once, twice, and then slipped, falling uselessly to his side, as he pitched backwards in a shower of mud and dirt…

* * *

_**Author's note- The new season starts on September fifth! I'm ecstatic! Yay! Why is he…? What is he…? How did he…? …mmm… I'm adrift in a sea of House-isms, and I never want to be saved… I also wrote two full pages of text. My muse is happy about that. It's actually disarming the bomb strapped to the back of my neck! Isn't that great? I can finally leave the house and go get some fresh air!**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	6. Storm

**_Disclaimer- Here's where it gets tough for me. First of all, I don't own House. Never minding that the possession of a person is illegal in this day and age, I don't own anything affiliated with the show, House. Also, for reasons that will make more sense after this chapter, I 'winged it.' Winged what? Read on! If I said what I meant, well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?_**

**_----------------------------------------------------------_**

-Chapter Six-

Storm

His balance lost, he pitched backwards, the world spinning around him. He was aware of the sensation that he was suspended in the air for a moment, and he clamped his eyes shut. The air whistled past his ears, and he tensed up, twisting, trying to regain his orientation.

House hit the ground flat on his back amidst a shower of dirt and debris. Pain jolted through his body, lightning-quick, the impact knocking the breath from him. His eyes snapped open, and he opened his mouth to gasp for breath. He found he couldn't. Panic flooding over him, he tried again, throwing his head back, and tensing up. The more he struggled, the worse it got, until finally a tiny breath of air choked into his lungs. Surprised, he relaxed, and found it progressively easier to breathe.

_I'm an idiot. After a fall like that, the diaphragm muscles contract. _House moved to sit up, and agony shot through his body in such a way as to make the Vicodin he'd taken only moments before seem insignificant. He dropped back to the muddy ground, teeth gritted against the overwhelming sensation. Gradually, the pain began to recede. _It's normal. Normal. Get up slowly, muscle by muscle. No sudden movements._ House rolled over onto his stomach, knees tucked beneath him, and began to rise. His muscles ached, but did not give out. He got to his feet, the wind whipping stinging sheets of rain into his face. _My head aches, and I feel dizzy, but I'm fine, just fine. Wilson's still out…_ House glanced over to where he had marked the sand to gauge the rising water, and blinked in shock. The water level had obscured all traces of the lines, and was now lapping at the grass, barely four feet from where House stood.

"Shit!" he muttered out loud, bending over to retrieve his cane from the ground where it lay, and limping over to where Wilson was sprawled on the ground. "Wake up, Jimmy, come on, wake up!"

Wilson stirred, and began to open his eyes.

"The water's rising too fast. I need you to move back. We need to find a way up to the road. Do you think you can move enough?"

Wilson's voice was weak, and House leaned closer, to listen. "I-I can't. If I move-"

"I got it, your rib. But if I gave you a few more Vicodin than needed… "

Wilson gave a short, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"Well, we have to figure something… Before, I heard--" House cut himself short. He had been about to mention the motorcyclist to Wilson. That was about the worst thing he could do at the moment. He berated himself silently for his slip. "…heard lightning hit something close by. Someone's got to come soon to investigate. But you need to move away from the water. I'll help you. It's rising quickly, and this current's dangerous." House pulled out his bottle of Vicodin, and held one out to Wilson. "At least take this. The other will be wearing off about now." He took the grimace Wilson made to be an affirmative, and dropped the pill into his mouth. "And if you need something to wash it down with, just open your mouth and wait a minute or so. This rain is coming down fast enough." He was rewarded with a weak grin.

House waited until after Wilson had swallowed, and then he leaned over, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Push off with your feet." Together, they managed to move him to the base of the cliff, where they both rested a moment.

The rain swirled around them, and the wind grew stronger. House struggled to stay standing, but after losing his balance a good many times, lowered himself to the ground. "Can you stand?"

"P-probably not. I could try," Wilson replied weakly, squinting through the rain.

"Do you think you could climb up that hill?"

"Sorry. Even just moving my arm…"

"Okay. Maybe I could…" House mused. "No… It's too muddy, too steep…"

As the storm intensified, he began to hear things in the wind, one moment thinking that he heard a car, the next, someone screaming or the rush of a train. The gusts became so strong that he had to lie on the ground to avoid the brunt of the weather. The air grew heavier, and he began to experience a dull roaring in his ears.

"Jimmy! Are you okay?" he shouted over the wind. He heard no reply, and raised his head to look. Something whizzed by his ear, and he ducked back down. " Hey! _Wilson_!" The reply was almost inaudible through the storm, but House relaxed when he heard it. He reached out, and touched Wilson's arm. Though he flinched away at the initial contact, it was a relief to know he was there.

House closed his eyes, wishing that he could close his mind to his surroundings. The downpour had grown so much in intensity that he found himself debating whether it was rain or hail. Either way, it wasn't pleasant. The sounds around him had grown to a deafening crescendo that assaulted his senses and drew time out to the barest threads of the term. He lost track of how long he had been lying on the ground. There was nothing he could see in the brief moments he dared to look into the storm, the rain was coming down thick enough that it obscured anything that was further than a foot from him. Some moments he was even under the impression that nothing existed past the curtain of rain.

Though only a few feet separated him from Wilson, he had no way of finding out whether he was okay. Every time he shouted, his words were carried away on the wind, so that he eventually gave up to save his energy and voice.

With a sudden shock, House realized that his feet were submerged. Alarmed, he looked over his shoulder, to find that the river had risen enough to be lapping at his legs. He then became aware that the rain was subsiding, the maelstrom now only at the level of a heavy downpour. As the confusion slowly cleared, House unsteadily rose to his feet, staggering a little as he stretched cramped-up muscles. He looked over to where Wilson still lay, and met his steady gaze, smiling a little as he realized that his friend was still there.

Something nagged at the edge of his consciousness, something that his mind still blocked out as noise from the storm, yet did not quite fit that description. It was more of a rumbling, idling grumble, slowly growing louder, as if it were growing closer. It was only when he heard the familiar squeal of brakes that it connected. It was a truck, and it was stopping directly above where he and Wilson were. Enervated by the thought that help might finally have come, he turned his head up towards the road, and called out as loudly as he could, his voice cracking in mid-shout. Snatching up a stone from the ground, he pitched it up, watching it arc up and out of sight, and a second later was rewarded with the distinct ping of it hitting metal. "Hey!" he hollered, nothing but fear of being passed by on his mind. A flash of movement caught his eye, and his hopes leapt.

A face appeared at the top of the hill, staring down at House. He stared back for a moment, too amazed to do nothing for a moment.

"_¡Eh, señor _!" the man called down to him. "_¿Está bien? Está daño?"_

It took a moment for him to realize that the man was speaking Spanish. "_¡Estas dos personas aqui! Yo soy bien, pero mi amigo est daño. Il tiene una costilla quebrada."_

"_Pediré ayuda. Permanezca aquí." _The man held a cellphone in sight, presumably for House to be assured by. He then began to turn away.

"_¡No! No teléphono! Vaya consiguen cuerda! El agua se está levantando rápidamente, y nescesitamos salir."_ The man nodded, and disappeared from sight. House waited anxiously for his return. Deep within him, his cynical self reminded him that the man could leave, and he'd be able to do nothing to stop him. He shook his head, as if he were trying to dislodge the thought from his head. He was relieved when the man returned, a thick shipping rope in hand. _"¿Es seguro?"_ The answer was in the affirmative, and the end of the rope was tossed down into reach. House grabbed it, pulling to see how long it was. It was long enough for what he had in mind. He brought the end of it around and tied it twice, so that there were two loops, each about two feet long. "Wilson. Sit in these. It's gonna be uncomfortable, but…" He then turned back to the road. _"¡Tírelo hacia arriba!))" _House watched Wilson slowly rise up the hill, pushing off of the cliffside as best he could to aid in the ascent. Somehow, the single man at the top managed to reel in the rope with considerable speed, until, with a final last heave, Wilson disappeared from sight. House was left, standing ankle-deep in the swift current, waiting for the rope to fall, so that he too could escape. He checked to see that his cane was secure in his belt-loop, and drummed his fingers on the side of his leg. _Any day, now…_ Time passed, and House grew nervous, still looking skywards. He wouldn't relax until he was out of here. _"¡Hey! La cuerda, por favor!))"_

_**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**_

_**Author's note- It makes more sense now, doesn't it? I don't speak Spanish, House does. You do see where that might be a problem, yes? So I'm doing the best I can here, but please forgive any slipups or mistakes I might make… And no, I didn't provide translations. I'm just that way. But when House spoke Spanish on the show, I had no clue (mostly) what he was saying, beyong the gist of it.) I hoped to convey the same feel here.**_

…

**_YEEEEEAAAAAHHH! OMH! I'm thrilled. House, season THREE is HERE! Yay! end of shameless freakout…_**

_**It's not over yet. Don't stop looking for updates until the "Status: COMPLETE" sign comes up. **_

_**See you later…**_

_**-----------------P'Bantonox**_


	7. INTERLUDE: Flashback

**_God, guys, I'm so sorry, really I am. I'd love to give you all a basketful of excuses, all neatly giftwrapped and perfectly logical. I could tell you my godmother died, that my best friend graduated, that I'm now a senior in high school and that my laptop crashed. But, you know, they are, after all, just excuses. They happen to be true excuses, but still. I owed it to you all to keep writing and I didn't. I let real life pull me away from the thing I loved doing best, left you all waiting for a chapter for what, a year? Almost TWO? I suppose most of you have left and given up hope. I don't blame you, really I don't._**

**_You've all been lovely, and I've been inconsiderate. I put off the chapter for a while 'cos of the spanish. Then it was because of Camp. And then school, and then life and then Doctor Who until at last it had faded from my list of things to do._**

**_I didn't mean it, dudes and dudettes. And I gotta make it up to you somehow._**

**_So._**

**_This is not a present day chapter. That, my friends (if indeed you don't mind me calling you friends...) will be up by February 1, 2008. No excuses._**

**_This chapter is from before the accident. I'm posting this so that way I can get the next chapter in hand and ready. Are you sitting comfortably?_**

**_Let's begin._**

* * *

**_House belongs to me. I have DONE IT AT LAST! MUAHAHAHAHA!!!_**

**_Actually, no. I wish. Buuut, if it did, if I had the legal rights, I'd give it to you all for putting up with me. God, I wish there was something I could do for you all. ... Oooh, I know, I wish I could end the Writer's Strike for you all, so we could have House back. There._**

* * *

INTERLUDE

_Wilson hated himself for it. He was alone. Again._

_Some people drink. Some people gamble._

_Some people cheat._

_It was never on purpose, he'd swear it on his life, just… well, just that he _cared.

_He cared, and he'd give what he could to make others feel better. And if there was a face that he knew and loved, he wouldn't be able to turn away. House ridiculed him for caring too much._

_"What does_ he_ know about caring?" Wilson startled himself by saying the words aloud, and the glass slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. He muttered a swear, and drank from the bottle instead._

_Bitter, sharp, burning. He could sit and compare the taste of alcohol to his life, but he didn't feel that productive._

_House said he got introspective when he got drunk._

_Well._

_Introspection was… _

_Introspection was… well, too deep to think about. The man on the television burbled happily on about French bread, and Wilson considered standing up and getting the remote._

_The clock interrupted his thoughts. Ten chimes. _

_He had time. Time to think, time to drink…Throwing the rumpled remains of a Kleenex across the room, he leaned forwards and grabbed the phone off the table. The number came automatically to his mind, and he punched it in with only a moment's hesitation._

_It rang once, twice, a third time, and –_

_"Hello, you've reached the office of God. Stop calling me unless it really matters. If it does, leave a message and I'll erase it later." BEEEEEEP._

_Wilson stared at the phone for a moment, and then hung up._

_A second later, it was off the hook again._

"_House, it's me. It's Wilson. Listen, I…" He trailed off. What did he want to say? More importantly, what _could_ he say? How did you explain this sort of thing?_

_Biting his lip absently, Wilson hung up again, and sat back down again. Maybe he'd know something was wrong. Maybe he'd care enough to call back._

_Until then, he'd keep the only company at hand – a slowly diminishing bottle of wine._

_Drink always sympathized. _

* * *

**_This is me, P'Bantonox, feeling like crap. I'll shut up. I got all my moaning out at the beginning. Pretty out of the ordinary for me. And A/Ns aren't for moping. So here's the news. _**

**_THE STORY WILL CONTINUE. I'm extending it. It's the least I can do for you. I owe you all, so here's the news. _****_It's gonna be ten chapters long._**

**_The next chapter explains the reason for the Title "Will Be." It's also seven pages long, last time I checked._**

**_I hope to see you all soon on Feb 1. _**

**_Missed you. P'Bantonox._**


	8. Que Sera

_Disclaimer- OWNED!!! …by __House__. It's impossible for me to ever be in possession of it, so I've decided to do the next best thing… Write more._

_CAUTION!!! WARNING!!! This is __NOT THE LAST CHAPTER!!!__ Read the author's note for more details._

-Chapter Seven-

Que Sera

He stood, the water well past his ankles and still rising, though the storm had long been gone. He shifted his stance, removing most of his weight from his right leg, and craning his head upwards toward the ledge he had seen Wilson disappear over. He shouted up to the man who had come to help them escape. _"__¡__Hey! La cuerda, por favor!"_

"_Uno momento,"_ came the reply. _"Estoy__ ayudando a su amigo.__"_

House paused for a moment, considering, and then shouted back. _"__¡__Tiro la cuerda aqui! Subiré para arriba en mis el propio.__"_ A few seconds passed, and the end of the rope came cascading down, over the edge. He grabbed hold, tugged twice to make sure the rope was safe, and grabbed hold, his cane safely tucked into his belt-loop. He lifted his left leg off of the ground first, bracing himself against the hill before bringing his right off of the ground. Quickly, carefully, he rested his weight upon his right leg and shuffled his other upwards onto a better foothold. _Thank god I wear sneakers. _He was making progress, closer to the top of the hill than he had reached on his unsuccessful earlier try. It was hard. His muscles strained and his leg hurt, but he knew he could do this. _Just a little further…_ The edge was within sight, and as he made his way closer, he became able to see over it. The silver gleam of a truck's cab, the long span of metal that he recognized as the top of a tractor-trailer…

He was at the top now, and he could see the road. The rope spanned the distance from where he was, all of the way over to the bumper of the truck. Wilson and the man were nowhere in sight. House gave one final effort, and lifted himself up over the ledge and onto the grassy roadside, crawling a little ways before dropping to his knees and closing his eyes. He was _out_. He forced himself to his feet, cane back in his hand, and limped over to the truck.

A flurry of motion in the cab caught his eye, and he turned to see a tired-looking man walk towards him. Eyes taking in the uniform and the shock of unkempt hair, he knew that this was the owner of the voice.

House looked past the man, seeing Wilson lying on the backseat of the cab. Relief flooded over him, tension disappearing from his features and leaving only exhaustion. _"Gracias,"_ he murmured, and took a few steps forwards before a wave of dizziness came over him. He stumbled, caught himself, and looked up.

"_Siéntese en el carro,__"_ the man said, a look of sympathy on his face. _"__Nos v__amos al hospital.__"_

House nodded, then motioned for the man to lend him his cell phone. As soon as it was in his hand, he flipped it open and dialed a number he knew by heart. It rang twice, and then…

"Dr. Cuddy at Princeto--"

"Cuddy."

There followed a long pause. "…House?"

"Yeah. Listen, I need--"

"Where are you? Where's Wilson?"

"I need an O.R. Wilson's here with me."

"Tell me where you two are. I'll send an ambulance for your patient."

"An ambulance would take too long. We've got transportation. Prep an O.R."

"Fine. Why?"

"Wilson's hurt."

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line. "_Wilson? _What--"

House looked up, turned his head a little bit to the side, then looked down again with a sigh. "He was in an accident," he said, his body language betraying his calm voice. "He's stable. His pulse reads about average for what he went through. He's got a broken rib, internal bleeding, possibly other injuries. Surprisingly, no concussion as far as I can tell. Nothing so serious as to be life threatening. Get me that O.R. We'll be there in fifteen minutes." He closed the phone, and handed it back to the man. _"Soy Greg House."_

"_Miguel Kallez." _

House glanced down at the hand proffered for a handshake, and turned away, limping toward the front of the truck to circle around to the passenger side. The truck had been blocking his view of his surroundings, but when he had walked enough that it no longer did, he gasped, taking in his surroundings.

Leaves plastered the road, and branches were strewn every which way, messes of debris piled everywhere. He could see fallen trees, and boughs stripped of their foliage. This had not just been a storm. He shook his head, amazed at the change that the road had undergone since before the accident. It was unnerving.

He continued his unsteady gait, opening the door to the truck's cab and climbing in. It was cramped, papers and garbage littering the floor. The radio was playing some tune that he didn't recognize, the words spoken too quickly for him to even bother translating. In the backseat, Wilson was sprawled across the cushion, eyes closed. Whether he was asleep or not, House wasn't sure, but he didn't want to risk waking him if he was. Instead, he stared at him, taking in the muddy clothing and the matted hair. Already a puddle was beginning to collect on the floor beneath him. House gave a small grin, realizing that he probably didn't look much better. But Wilson… his face was peaceful, no sign showing of the hell he had been through not half an hour earlier. A line of mud trickled down the side of his face, threatening to run into his mouth. House reached over, carefully wiping it away before it did so, and then leaned back into the seat, eyes still lingering on his friend.

_Yeah, it'd been hell. But it's over now._

The other door slammed shut, jerking House out of his reverie, and he turned to see Miguel in the driver's seat. "Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital," he told him, and buckled in.

A mutter on the radio caught his attention, and he reached forwards, turning it up.

"_--whipped through Princeton County, leaving a trail of destruction. A tornado of this magnitude has not been recorded in the state of New Jersey since 1994. Several injuries have been reported, though there appears to be no casualties, though the local authorities have been informed of missing persons. Downed power lines and fallen trees may be an issue, and all are advised to refrain from traveling long distances until better road conditions are achieved. The storm is now traveling towards Bergen County, and the National Weather Service issues a tornado warning for the following areas…"_

House blinked, letting the flood of words wash over him. _Tornado… If only I hadn't gone back for my bag. We both would have arrived safely at the hospital. Cuddy would have gotten mad at me, but that's nothing I can't handle. _He stared out the window at the passing scenery, the truck rumbling along at a fair speed. He took it all in, the absolute chaos that the storm left behind, running it all through cold analysis.

At some point the realized that the radio was no longer reporting the news, but playing music again. With a shock, he realized that he'd been humming along unconsciously for quite some time now. He knew the tune.

"_Que sera sera, whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see, que sera sera… "_

House closed his eyes, relaxing for the first time since the morning. _Whoever wrote that song… Dammit, but they're right._

_What will be, will be._

…

…

_**(old)**__ Author's Note- HEY. As House likes to say, EVERYBODY LIES. Yup, I did. __Will Be__ ISN'T the story that's about to end. SO DON'T STOP READING. Yeah. I know. It was mean. But once upon a time, this is what I meant to do: end the story at their rescue. But once I got this far, I noticed one heck of a lot of loose ends. Even at this moment, I'm making plans for the conclusion of __SECURITY__. Not my favorite thought, but every story must come to an end eventually. If you don't believe me on this, just wait. I'll be continuing it on into the hospital. I can't promise regular updates 'cause now I'm back at school, but I never leave a story unfinished. _

_And now you know my reason for the title. Yeah. What will be, __will be __. Whatever. Also, the reason I waited until this week to update (besides me being a lazy jerk and depriving you all of the story simply because I didn't want to translate the Spanish…) is because, er- I was separated from my computer and school isn't exactly a place you can access home from easily. (At least with mine.)_

_Later!_

_-P'Bantonox._

_**Present-day Author's Note- Ouch. This is a recovered version I found on my flash drive up in the attic, one that survived the crash! I went back over it, realizing that my style's changed a bit since then, and grinning a whole lot over it. I even left the original disclaimer and A/N. So guess what? I've decided to drop the chapter limit. See, I've just thought of an extended storyline!**_

_**And for those who are interested, the next chapter contains the following words: puce, Hippocratic, friend, and the phrase "Yes, that's why we provided you with a bed."**_

_**Oh, and, erm… about my muse. I have a new one. My old one ran off to go to college. So. Let me introduce you to my new one. D'you know it, I think my muse likes the attention! I think, just maybe, this time things might work out all right!**_

_**Oh? What? A contract? Wha --?**_

_**(P'Bantonox is currently unavailable to sign this author's note, as her signature is needed elsewhere.)**_


	9. Back

_**Disclaimer – So I woke up one morning, and there was this little angel sitting at the foot of my bed, and standing next to it was this little punk. And I knew there had to be some significance there. So I asked them about **__**House**__**. And the little white fluffy one said I ought to work on my stories and write to make people happy. And the spiky one said he could give me **__**House**_

_**How was I supposed to know that they had swapped outfits while I was deciding?**_

_**So, er… Here I am. And House is not mine.**_

_**Damn.**_

* * *

**_EDIT: Yeah, I'm typing this during the showing of House, a commercial break, Feb 5, 2008. 'Cos if you saw this episode, you know what I'm thinkin'... One little step for Wilson, one gleeful moment for shippers:) My god, you can read deep into that... _**

* * *

"I slept, I woke up. I recovered. I'm fine." House swung his legs out of the hospital bed, scowling down at the standard-issue gown he wore. One hand found the IV stand, and the other held him steady. "I'm going to see him." 

"You're not going anywhere." Lisa Cuddy fixed him with a disapproving look from the doorway. "You couldn't walk. The pain would be unbearable."

He turned his head, ever so slightly, his eye glinting. "What pain?"

"Bruised rib, pulled muscles, enough bruises to –" She broke off, attention fixed on a monitor's readings. She immediately busied herself changing settings. "You've upped your morphine. That's dangerously high!"

Pulling himself to his feet, he grinned at her. "So am I. And I'm going." He paused. "Going as in the, 'you tell me the room I can find James Wilson in and I'll get out of your way' way.

"No."

"What, no argument?"

"No."

He sighed quietly, wishing that there were an easier way to get out of the conversation and where he wanted to go. Morphine made his Vicodin pale by comparison, but it was hardly good for the concentration. "I'm tired."

"Yes, that's why we provided you with a bed." She seemed to be enjoying the exchange.

"No, sorry, misunderstanding. See, there's two kinds of tired I'm feeling right now. One, there's physical, and yeah, it's high up on the list. Two, there's emotional. I'm tired of standing here and getting nothing done. I'm tired of lying in a bed and wondering how my friend is doing; tired of half-wit all-rule nurses telling me it's against regulations to see the chart of another patient. I'm tired of waiting. I've done enough of that, and I'd like to take some action."

She crossed her arms, and House swore silently. _What the hell's wrong with me? I can't read her body language, and her face doesn't betray any visible emotion._ The nuances of human communication were lost to him, and he was forced to rely on old-fashioned power of speech. And words could deceive.

"All right," she said, "Tell me why it's so important. I know he's your friend, but –"

"Exactly. He's my friend." Not pausing to read into her expression, he continued on. "Besides, Wilson's patients are cancer kids. You know, all cute, break your heart, dote on me cases. They've got this great program that gives dying kids a last wish. So what does a cancer doctor's friend get?"

"He gets a yes."

House smiled slightly. "Should have asked a different question, then. Can I hear that more often?"

"You should be asking yourself that," came the reply. "Oh, and by the way…"

He glanced sideways at her.

"You're going in a wheelchair."

- - - - -o

_Of course she'd given up too easily_, House sighed. It was the wheelchair. It was as if he was on display for the hospital. Adding insult to injury. Of course, he knew Cuddy. She didn't mean harm – _well,_ permanent harm. Still, if embarrassment was the key, it was happening. _I hate being mistaken for a patient._ He clenched his eyes shut and leaned back, wincing as he felt a tightness in his ribs. It was enough to make him open his eyes, and he found himself looking up at the face of a male nurse.

The man grinned down at him. "Hello, Doctor House. Enjoying the ride?"

He growled. "Not when I know there's a tie like that hanging over my head. However did you get _that_ past security?" Leaving him to ponder the puce tartan, House slouched forwards in the wheelchair, noting the hall they had just entered. "ICU," he whispered, and readjusted his expression, scrunching up his eyes and raising his eyebrows before relaxing. One hand gripped the armrest of the chair, and the other rested instinctively on his leg. As they approached the room he had been told was Wilson's, he forced himself to relax. Still, he couldn't help but shift uncomfortably as the attending pulled open the sliding doors and allowed him inside.

He threw another glance back over his shoulder at the man who had wheeled him in, and behind him, the one with the IV drip. "Thank you," he said sharply, "Go on now." One left, but the unfamiliar one hesitated. _New, huh._ "I'm a doctor. The fact that I'm injured doesn't change that." That, thankfully, was enough to send him off.

He didn't rise right away, yesterday's events still stuck in his mind. He hardly remembered arriving at Princeton-Plainsboro, the memory merely a blur. He remembered paramedics, Cuddy's concerned expression, the cold white of the ER and Wilson, pale, silent, wheeled through a set of double-doors and out of sight. And then it was his turn, and there were masks, steel, and darkness.

House shook the memory from his head and winced. He wouldn't be doing that again anytime soon. _Cuddy limited my morphine, and there just isn't enough for me, my leg, and everything else that came along for the ride after the accident._

_And then again, I could be a little more upbeat._

He braced himself against the side of the bed and pulled himself upright, ignoring the muffled throb in his leg. Levering himself to the side, he managed to sit by Wilson's feet, looking down at him. House was acutely aware of every scratch, bruise, bump and twist that he bore, but looking at his friend, all these slipped easily from his mind. It was not surprising to him that between the two of them, he would have the worst injuries. In the light of things, it was damn near a miracle as House was willing to admit, that he hadn't outright died.

Injuries were easy to deal with on a day-to-day basis, but that was in the case of patients. Patients were independent integers, and their cases, mere equations to be solved with cold logic. The moment emotion factored in, objectivity ceased. Completely. House found it easy to spend what hours his leg would allow him in an operating room, sifting through a patient's internal organs with the greatest attention to detail. He did not have any objection to entering situations that would stretch his Hippocratic Oath to the limits, provided he was in charge and aware of the repercussions. He wasn't afraid to tread on the wrong side of the law in order to obtain the information he needed for one case or another. And yet, looking at Wilson's motionless form laid out on the hospital bed, he couldn't help but feel his stomach turn at the sight of his friend's battered form. Professionalism ended when his friend was on the other side of the clipboard.

House chastised himself for his reaction. All signs pointed to his recovery, he noted, flipping through the conveniently 'forgotten' folder. Two broken ribs, contusions, abrasions, cuts and weals… Nothing that wouldn't heal, given time. Nothing serious. The physical conditions were listed were less of a concern than what he expected to see, what he knew he would see, as he scanned the chart.

_Point oh-nine blood alcohol level._ The words twisted in his gut, dragging him backwards through a wave of apprehension. _There's no way that it would be overlooked._ It might as well have been written in red ink – the words had burned their way into his memory. Wilson had been driving drunk, and whatever it was that had caused the ever-cautious doctor to do such an irrational thing, it no longer mattered. He had taken his own life in his hands, and that being spared, it was his job on the line instead. _There'll be an inquiry. There'll be trouble. Hours of explanation, hours of –_

Wilson stirred. It was only a flutter of his eyelids, an unconscious twitch, but it was enough to pull House out of his thoughts. His lips parted and he nearly spoke, but he caught himself. The man was still asleep. And until he woke, the world of troubles he'd be facing would wait. It would better to let him sleep in as much peace as he could get until then.

_And I envy him that peace. _House turned and stared off into space. _I still have the Cathanis case to diagnose. Forty-six year old woman presenting with high fever, chills, hemolytic anemia and dark orange-colored urine. Two days in and we've only figured out what it isn't. And at the rate of deterioration, she'll be dead in a week._

_And,_ he realized, _one day shot, and I don't know how things progressed._

Conscious of the impact it would have on him, House pulled the morphine drip closer, decreasing the amount that the machine dispensed. He wasn't used to it. Unlike his Vicodin, it impaired his perception in the dosage he needed. _I'll deal with the pain. It won't be easy, but it'll be significantly easier than weathering a tornado._

_Damn. I'm never gonna live this one out in peace._

- - - - -o

"The worst tornado New Jersey's seen in twelve years, and you weathered it?"

House leaned back in his chair, wincing. "Appreciate the pun." He nodded to Chase. "But yeah, apparently we did."

"Are you sure you should be here?" Cameron gave him a concerned look, and he shrugged it off.

"Absolutely. Sick person dying… that's our job, right? To cure people?"

"Well, yes, but –"

"No issue there, then."

"You're injured –"

"Barely. My life is already assured, whereas this woman's is not. Much more interesting to diagnose than to mope. Now quick, quick, let's get some work done before Cuddy discovers I'm gone." He paused. "And speaking of absences, where's Foreman?"

"Couldn't make it," the young man said. "He was coming in late today, but got caught on the edge of the storm. Had to turn back."

House sighed, running the edge of his cane around the length of the IV stand. He drew one hand along the cold metal and blinked distractedly. "Get him on the phone then. Phones _are_ up, right?" Watching Cameron rise to dial Foreman's cell phone, he stopped her momentarily. "There's a red duffel bag under the desk. Toss it here. I don't want to wear _this_ all day. I see enough of these baggy outfits on patients."

With the bag on his lap, he began sorting through it, pulling out odds and ends until he had the makings of a casual suit on the table in front of him. "I'm going off to change. When I get back I want Foreman on speakerphone, and I want to know what I missed." He rose to his feet, cane firmly in hand, and limped over to the door, the bundle of clothes under his arm keeping him slightly off-balance. Once at the doors, he paused. "If Cuddy asks if you saw me, you didn't."

Ten minutes later, he was back, fully dressed, the IV trailing after him, and a decidedly tired expression on his face. "I'm back," he said quietly. "Did I miss anything?"

"No, but –"

House caught Chase's glance at the phone and cut him off loudly. "Hello, Foreman! Enjoying the day off?"

"Hello, House," came the slightly distorted reply.

"Glad you could make it. So, I want to know – What did I miss?" He could swear he heard a small sigh through the speaker, but he chose to ignore it. "One day passes. Either Andrea Cathanis is well on the way to recovery or she's a-knocking on death's door. I'm guessing it's the second choice." He leaned forwards and raised his eyebrows, his tone confidential. "I'm betting nothing big got done without me. Typical Wednesday."

"Actually," Chase corrected him, "Yesterday was a Thursday."

The pause in House's response was noticeable, but he appreciated the fact that none of them chose to comment. He drew a deep breath. "Okay, then. Thursday. Can I have an answer to the question?" He waited a few seconds, and then sighed quietly. "No answer. Interesting. She's getting worse, very quickly, and none of you want to say it out loud… She's only got a few days left. Am I right?"

Cameron caught his eye. "Yes," she said simply. "And so does her boyfriend."

House looked up sharply. "What boyfriend?"

* * *

_**Author's Note – Yeah, as many of you pointed out, there really was no relevance to the placing of chapter seven, INTERLUDE. Honestly and truly, I only put it there to catch attentions, fill up space, and motivate myself. Well, it was actually a writing exercise, a device to allow me to get back into writing Wilson. See, I'm not as good at writing him as I'd like to be. It was mildly related, being Wilson's backstory, so I figured, why not put it in? It detracts from the pacing, though, and I'm considering deleting it or making it into its own separate story, like a prelude, or something.**_

_**I should have named it 'INTERMISSION…"**_

_**Okay, now here come the thanks! UBER- thanks to **_'The Anonymous One,'Wuchel1_**, and **_Miyth_**, for reviewing, though it seemed futile, and convincing me to return. And, I suppose, for reintroducing me to **__**House.**__** I mean, I've still been watching the show, but I never looked back at old episodes after I left… I'd stopped investing myself in the characters. So you won't believe how grateful I am to you, not just for renewing my interest in this story, but for renewing my enjoyment of the show.**_

_**Also, mega-thanks to **_Aqua Mage, IceStar4621, Emerald124, _'_The Anonymous One,' _**and **_Blackrose Kitsune_**, for coming back, even after all this time, and reviewing. You who care are those who keep me here. I love familiar names! (And to any of you who came back to read, but never reviewed, your name is written here, - in invisible ink.) Sorry if I missed anyone…**_

_**And 'normal-but-still-very-fluffy' thanks to all who have reviewed since the revival- **_Aqua Mage, 'The Anonymous One,' Miyth, IceStar4621, Bloody Koalas, fox4mel, SJ-88, Emerald124, BlkDiamond, thatonegirl005, leana9101, Boys Don't Cry_**, and **_Blackrose Kitsune_**. And no, **_Blackrose_**, no review is too long! Reviews are chocolate, and chocolate helps me write faster!**_

_**Oh, and I'd like to thank you all, readers, for allowing me two weeks to get back 'into the groove' as it were. My ideal updating schedule is twice a week, maybe three times – now that I've figured out what Andrea Cathanis has, the words should come easier. sighs I'm doing a lot of research on this story, went to the library and took out stacks of books on Spanish, diagnostics, legal stuff, and diseases… Am I taking it too seriously?**_

_**I don't care if I am :)**__** And I apologize for the size of this A/N! To make up for it, I'll bring in the medical stuff next chapter. And speaking of next chapter, here's some words from the next chapter: imposter, banana, hero, and a random phrase is "No, I don't think it's Lupus, I just wanted to throw it out there, get it over with..."**_

_**P'Bantonox.**_


	10. Overview

_**Disclaimer- **__**House**__** isn't mine. Hey, he isn't yours either, you jerk, so why are you laughing? **_

_**(Not you, readers. My muse.)**_

* * *

Cameron stared at him. "_What boyfriend?_ The one that got brought in… yesterday." 

House sighed, his eyes mirroring the irony in his words. "Yeah. That was why I wanted all the details first. Her _history_ says she doesn't have a boyfriend. And I had no idea that this guy got brought in. You could have woken me up, I'm sure it was important enough."

"Actually, we couldn't."

House swiveled in the office chair, looking at the speakerphone. "No? Why? Foreman, did you see the witch cast a big evil spell on me? Anyone noticed any poison apples cleverly disguised as Vicodin? …I was tired, not suffering from exhaustion. An aching rib does not a sleeping beauty make. Which means…" He scowled, stressing the meaning behind his words. "_I was drugged._"

"You were hurt. You suffered a traumatic experience. I think –"

He should have expected Cameron to speak up, but he found it difficult to listen to her without thinking about the past. "_Yes_, it was traumatic," he snapped. "And nine years ago, I was drugged after a 'traumatic experience' and woke up with _half my leg missing_. You don't think that influences my thinking? You don't think I might want to avoid that kind of situation in the future?"

"I think –"

He cut her off again. "_I think_ we should focus on the patient. Reminiscences are useless in a differential, and now that I've lost _two days_, we have even less time to diagnose her."

Chase raised his hand off the table in a slight gesture that he obviously intended to be a neutral-looking agreement. House raised an eyebrow.

"Fill me in," he sighed. "Start from the beginning."

"Wednesday morn –"

"From the _beginning_. I want an overview. I've been off the case for two days and I need a refresher. _Go_."

Chase straightened in his chair. "Three days ago Andrea Cathanis was flown in to the ER for a hiking accident. She had severe trouble clotting, and was admitted by a Dr. Robison. Once able to give a history she revealed having a having high fevers for the past few weeks. Her urine was noted as being rust-coloured. She was treated for thrombophlebitis in her left thigh, referred here later when three ultrasounds revealed no clots, and blood cultures came back negative. Tests showed she had hemolytic anemia, and she was given a transfusion.

"…Possible diagnoses included neoplasia, rheumatologic disease, G6PD deficiency, transfusion reaction, and infection. We ruled out neoplastic reactions, G6PD, a reaction to the red-cell transfusion, narrowing it down to lupus, and a normal white blood cell count ruled out most bacterial infections."

House drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "And while I was out?"

"Her fever spiked at one-oh-four degrees Fahrenheit, and she started seizing. We gave her ten cc's diazepam, and put her in an ice bath to regulate her temperature."

He caught his breath and looked up, his eyes on the whiteboard. "And the boyfriend who isn't a boyfriend? Similar symptoms, or does his disease look like an imposter too?"

Cameron flipped through a file. "Some similar symptoms. Orange tint to the urine, slow clotting, and skin lesions. None of them related to what's killing him right now, however. The report says he was found at the same hiking spot where she was found, also caught in the rockfall. Emergency crews couldn't get to him until an hour and a half later. An airlift was transferring him from Princeton General when they had to turn back because of the approaching storm. He's got massive internal injuries and we don't know if he's going to make it."

House extended his hand, waggling his fingers to indicate that he wanted the patients' charts. Papers in hand, he flipped through them. He spent a few minutes staring at the boyfriend's history. "Paul Orcino… Outdoors enthusiast and naturalist…_ works for the EPA_. You think there's some connection between her dating him and the fact that she's a Greek hippie?"

Chase smiled slightly. "EPA officials date Greek hippies?"

"No, Greek hippies date EPA officials. Get into someone's pants, you get into their politics. Makes it easier to influence the way decisions are made." House shut the file, letting it drop to the glass tabletop.

"If they've got the same thing, it might be infectious – "

"I kind of figured that. What infectious diseases do you know that present with a normal white count?"

"Hep A, Epstein-Barr…"

Cameron continued from where Chase had trailed off. "We discounted it before, but perhaps an _E. coli_ infection. It accounts for the anemia, fevers, and the blood in the urine, and her immune system might not have caught on yet, therefore normal white count."

"Nope. _E. coli_ comes with thrombocytopenia. Our patient has thrombophlebitis. _Way_ different. Besides, there's…" He paused, staring past Cameron's head and into the hallway. "There's no renal impairment." He rose to his feet, grabbing the IV pole and hooking his cane over it. "Think about it, and go run more tests. Foreman, hang up, save your minutes or switch to a better service. Chase, you're wrong too, but feel free to get official lab results to confirm it. …This may take a while."

Cuddy was waiting for him outside.

He pushed open the door and limped through. "Are you gonna yell at me, or can I have my turn first?"

She ignored his comment and stared at him critically. "I allow you to get up to go see your friend, and I come back half an hour to find an empty bed."

House shot her a mocking pout. "Apparently you still haven't gotten over the 'empty bed' thing. I was still in the house, you know, fixing something up for you…" He clapped his palm to his forehead comically. "Oh, you're talking about today! Well, it still applies…"

"Your rib still hasn't healed. I let you leave that room against my better judgment."

"A room I intend to go back to, to sleep in tonight."

"A room that hospital rules demand you spend your recovery time in."

"I recovered, I'm fine. I don't think my rib'll be too happy about taking the bus home, but if I have to, I will. I've still got a case to figure out, in case you haven't noticed. I'm very much alive, and she's _dying_. Remember? Oh yeah, and so's her boyfriend, so you might consider the idea that it's infectious."

"I'm not letting you leave here –"

"…without a fight? Oh, is this one of those days where I have to argue you into letting me do everything. Well, as much as it may surprise you, I don't feel like it. My ribs and my leg hurt like hell, yes, but weighing that against a life, I'd say I can live through it. The question is, _can you?_ Are you _really_ holding my wellbeing against a patient's life? Is that in _any way_ professional?" House cocked his head to the side, watching Cuddy try and formulate an answer. For a moment he felt a spike of regret settle into his stomach. Had he cut too deep? He was just opening his mouth to say something that would take the edge off his words, when she shook her head.

"Fine," she said softly, and for a moment he could see past her professionalism to a shade of hidden emotion. He held his tongue.

He let his head drop a fraction, pulling the glass door open to allow her into the now-empty workspace. He wasn't too surprised when she complied, sitting in the spot that Cameron usually occupied. He spared a glance at the morphine drip, and settled down, his fingers playing over the cold metal of the stand. He let the silence sink in, letting the silence calm her more than his words would have. He wondered if she was as worried about Wilson. He wondered if he should speak. He decided to.

"Got anything to add to the differential?" House berated himself for speaking too loudly, and shrugged inwardly, his right hand resting lightly on the button that would increase his morphine. There was a dull, throbbing ache in his chest that signified the only significant mark that the accident had left on him, an unceasing pain that seemed to conspire with his leg to distract him. It left him restless, and he felt a need for his Vicodin. He wouldn't use the morphine. He wouldn't. It left him too detached, and that was exactly what he didn't need. Of course, thinking about it wouldn't help him either. "I mean it's okay if you don't, I thought any input might help."

"No, just… give me a moment to think."

House looked up, surprised at the tone in her voice. "Cuddy," he said quickly, "relax."

"No, it's not that…"

_Oh god. Here it comes._

"I'm just glad to see you both alive…"

_Thank whatever personal deity you hold dear for professionalism._ "Yeah, so am I. Did the tornado hit you hard? I haven't exactly had the chance to look out a window since I woke up, so…"

"No, it… passed us by. We had to put up with severe thunderstorms, power outages."

"That's good." He leaned forwards and rested his arm on the table. "It's all over now, and all right, so we'll probably be dealing with casualties for the next couple of days, but 'the storm has passed,' so to speak."

"Neither you or Wilson called in sick –"

"It's all over now." He cut her off, his fingers gripping the edge of the table with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

"I was worried, I thought something might have happened. I was waiting for one of your calls telling me that you had decided not to show, or maybe you had both conspired to go see a movie on worktime…" She raised her head in a half-shrug.

"That would have been a nice alternative. I should have done that instead. Instead, silly me, I scheduled myself for a car accident. I can pencil in that movie next month though." He paused. "…That's actually a good idea. Hmm…"

"I waited eight hours to hear from you."

He scoffed. "Eight hours? Really. Felt like eight, but I'm sure it was four."

"House."

_Ooh, Administrator voice._ "Still here. Actually, there's a question. Seems about now that I'd usually be down in the clinic – is there any way I can hang out up here? It's comfier, got better lighting, less sick people…"

"House, you're going to have to think about this some time. You saved a man's life in the middle of a tornado –"

"And you want the press coverage. Big friendly reporters come in and make your hospital look good on the front page, sing praise of the puppy-loving doctor who saved his friend."

She straightened, crossing her arms defensively. "No, I didn't want the press involved, but the news is already out there and it's going to be an issue that needs to be dealt with. As soon as you two were brought in, out came the reporters on the trail of a good story."

"This is _not_ a good story. This is a scandal waiting to happen. You saw Wilson's chart, didn't you? Saw his blood alcohol level? They're gonna make him into the bad guy and twist the facts." He narrowed his eyes, wishing that he could ignore the heavy feeling that had just slipped lower in his stomach. "You know there's going to be a hearing as soon as he's well enough to face the Board."

It was her turn to look away. "It's my job."

"Yeah." He leaned forwards. "And it's a bad idea to let the press get involved."

She raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "If I don't do anything, they make up their facts or get them somewhere less flattering."

"Then make an official release. Hospital business is confidential."

"They're going to want to hear from you, hear your side of the story."

House leaned back in his chair, one hand rubbing nervously at the aching tissue in his right leg. "They'd be better off interviewing some hometown Dorothy who got picked up and dropped in Aussieland. I'm no hero."

"That's not how it looks to everyone else."

There was a moment of silence, and House found himself looking anywhere but at Cuddy. His hands found the IV and he toyed with the idea of pulling it out altogether, just taking a few Vicodin instead. "This is what happens when I care?"

"_People_ care. You're a doctor at this hospital. You save people."

"_Aaand_ back to publicity. This is obviously gonna happen no matter how much I tell you it's a bad idea. I can deal with a few cameramen, but I don't want them to get into Wilson's life. They'll tear him apart. You know they will."

Cuddy rose to her feet and pushed in her chair, nodding quietly to him. "I'll do what I can to make sure things stay quiet for him, but you're going to have to deal with his half, too."

He groaned, a long, drawn out sigh. "Great. Yeah, okay, I'll deal. I'll also deal better if I have less interaction with people. You know, if they know me… it'll be harder to avoid them… So, no clinic duty."

"Fine."

House turned sharply, forgetting his leg, his ribs, everything. "What? That's it? Just…'fine,' and no arguing?"

"Yes. Your team can cover them for you. After all, they weren't involved in the recue, so they should have no problems from the press. They'll come in under the radar, and your job still gets done. Sound good?"

House shrugged and immediately winced, rolling his shoulders forwards before glancing up at her. "Sure."

"Great." Cuddy turned to leave, and paused, her eyes on the whiteboard. "And about the differential - cytomegalovirus, maybe, or a protozoal infection." She let a small smile creep onto her face, crossing her arms. "…lupus?"

House followed her gaze and chuckled. "No, I don't think it's lupus. I just wanted to throw it out there, get it over with. Someone was gonna say it, so…" Grabbing hold of the IV, he limped over to where she stood. He sighed purposefully.

"What is it?"

"Vicodin."

She frowned. "You've got morphine. Morphine trumps Vicodin any day. You're usually "

"Yeah. It numbs the pain, which is the idea. However, the bad thing is, it numbs everything else, too. Mainly thinking. Bad thing for a guy like me, whose job depends on the power of thought. So, I'll pull out the IV if you'll promise me I can have it back whenever I need it."

"Whenever you're _injured_ and need it," she clarified.

"Yeah. That's what I meant."

"Of course. Now, would you mind giving me a hand here, otherwise, who knows, I might actually do myself an injury _getting it out_. Then where would I be?" He smirked, and held his arm out at shoulder level, and was actually surprised to see Cuddy leave the doorway. "After all, if I'm famous now, there's no sense doing things for myself. That's what all the celebrities are doing, you know. Having other people do things for them."

_Oops. Guess I went a little too far there, too._ He cocked his head and watched her turn on her heel and retreat to the doorway once more.

"I'm sure you're perfectly capable. World-famous doctor like you, and everything."

"Oh," he scoffed, "of course. And do you know the first thing I'm gonna do with all this free time that I suddenly have?"

Cuddy was wearing her 'humor him' expression. "What?"

"Have lunch." He smirked darkly up at her. "After all, a full day spent in a _drugged sleep_ can do that to a person. Hungry like a lion. Driving me bananas. Might actually bite someone's head off." He waved her out. "See you later."

* * *

_**Author's Note- Yeah, this chapter was sort of a day or two late, and not as action-packed as it ought to have been. Buuuut, I had three tests to study for, so this chapter came a little further down the list of things to do than it usually does. Latin, math, and accounting. Those were the three classes. Yuck.**_

_**Thanks to **_IceStar4621, Bloody Koalas, 'Katie the Anonymous One,' thatonegirl005, leana901, Boys Don't Cry, Miyth, _**and**_ Blackrose Kitsune _**for reviewing, with a special thanks and welcome to**_ DragonHunter200 _**and**_ Lexi. _**Sit back and kick your feet up. Refreshments to the left, Vicodin to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with my computer. Or something of the like.**_

_**Next chapter… three words… 'Silver, off-putting, cold' and the phrase "Universally absorbed in their pathetic coolness, they were bound to notice him."**_

_**My muse says hi. My muse also wants you to see the very shiny legal bindings that I broke last week by not actually stating that I didn't own **__**House**__**. I think they're very pretty. I'm making a necklace out of them.**_

**_P'Bantonox_**


	11. Proximity

_**Author's Note- I don't own **__**House**__**. Cos if I did… I… well…**_

_**Erm… Let's get on with the story.**_

_**Shall we?**_

* * *

House scrunched up his face in a parody of bewilderment. "Who, me?" he said innocently to the pair of interns. He knew the pair from the seminar he'd done a while back, _(Not willingly!)_ and was now enjoying the confusion on their faces as they tried to confirm if he had indeed been in the accident. What made it more amusing, though, was the fact that they were trying hard to keep their pride intact by not directly asking him. They obviously didn't know the method was self-defeating.

Blonde-And-Skinny was looking nervously at Dark-And-Brainy, her body language telling of embarrassment and a deep-rooted instinct to flee. "Do you think maybe…" she began quietly, "maybe you could ask him –"

"Ask him yourself," House said, and raised his eyebrows. "You're blocking the hallway. He's got somewhere to go."

Dark-And-Brainy actually smiled, though she still looked as if she'd rather be elsewhere. "You're Doctor House."

"Is that a question?" He turned to face Blonde-And-Skinny. "You really should speak up for yourself. Be bold." Swiveling on one heel, he turned the other way again. "You too. And yes, Greg House is my name, yes, I was in the storm, and yes, I did save my colleague's life. That _is_ what you were going to ask, wasn't it?" He shrugged, and pushed past them. "God, this is going to get _so_ repetitious, _so_ fast."

Stopping without warning, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his bottle of Vicodin with a mischievous grin. "If I paid you, would you follow me around all day and answer that question for me?" He didn't give them time to answer, instead, turned to limp away down the hallway, his cane beating a sad staccato on the cold tile floor. Some part of him wondered if they were following, but the thought was soon pushed from his mind by the deeper rumblings of his stomach. It was almost enough to rival his focus on Wilson.

He was on autopilot, his feet taking him to the café without thought as to whether he had his wallet with him. As the thought crossed his mind, his hand fell to his side to find the reassuring bulge in his pocket. The same hand obediently picked up a tray and placed it on the counter, and motioned for the day's special – fried chicken. His eyes only barely followed the line ahead.

_Only item on the menu that tastes as good as the stuff you buy elsewhere. It's good… but Wilson knows how to make it without the extra grease. He still appreciates the fact that now and then they actually attempt to make real food here. I wish…_ House glanced away, wincing as current events came to mind. _I never thought I'd say this, but today I wish my life was a little less interesting. How the hell am I supposed to avoid a busload of reporters? Especially considering that I actually have a responsibility to face them, I –_

"House?"

He glanced up at the cashier. "Together," he said quickly and took a quick step forwards.

"_With whom?_"

Automatically his eyes flicked to the side, then upwards. A long silence fell between him and the register, and he placed his tray back on the counter. "Right, yeah. Sorry. It's… habit." He pulled out a wad of bills to help end the awkwardness, and the cashier nodded approvingly. With an off-putting sneer like hers, it was a wonder that sales hadn't gone down on her shift.

Tray in hand, he made his way towards the back of the room, headed for his usual spot. Wilson always said he was a creature of habit. Today, though, it felt as if all eyes were on him. Doctors, patients, random people he'd never seen before, heads turned to follow his path. A group of young boys had occupied his usual table, and they fell silent as he drew closer. Universally absorbed in their pathetic coolness, they were bound to notice him. Mister Twelve-Year-Old-Mohawk whispered something to his lackeys and a few of them smiled.

His footfalls committed him to his path. After all, his cane and tray made it awkward enough to retrace his steps, and the twisting motion he'd have to use to turn away would almost certainly make his rib flare up in pain. And in any case, he was hungry. The salty aroma of oil-fried chicken in batter was as good an incentive as any.

"Hey," he growled. "That's my spot. Get."

Mohawk grinned up at him. "No."

Sighing sharply, he rapped his cane on the edge of the table. "I said _move._ I can make your stay here miserable. I know the the head of Pediatrics _very_ well. So, go on…"

Reluctantly, the group uprooted themselves, moving their stuff to another table but leaving their trash where it lay. A sweep of his cane pushed it aside and he sank down into the chair, food already on its way to his mouth. He ate in restless silence.

There was an empty spot on the other side of the table.

He was used to being alone, but when it was out of his control, when it wasn't his choice, he still felt the emptiness. Only when he needed a friend was the absence of one glaringly obvious, and Wilson was that to him.

_Friend. Don't say it too often, but it… feels right._ He reached for a sip of his soda, shaking his head slowly. _Annnd I'm being a sentimental idiot again. And it really would matter if I actually cared about caring. But that's Wilson's job._ The cup came back down to rest on the table again.

_But you care about him,_ his subconscious shot back at him, the idea taking root before he could dismiss it. He frowned and pushed the thought aside with another bite of chicken. _Mmn, _his rationality replied. _Munchausen's by proximity. Hang out with the guy long enough and his need for the needy rubs off on you._

He was absorbed in his thoughts, so much so that he'd tuned out the rest of the world. Still, it wasn't his fault that he ignored the nervous shuffling of feet behind him. He didn't even move until the piercing drop of cold hit the back of his neck. That was when his world of introspection dissolved.

He glanced up, catching a hint of movement behind him before the sensation of cold drew back like the sea before a tsunami, and then it was less of cold and more of an inescapable numbing bite on his bare skin, driving deeper into the small of his back.

He pulled away from the unseen threat, instinct flashing through his muscles, pushing him forwards, too far but anything was safer than…

– _Ice cold fire and shards of hateful memory and I-I never –_

He slipped awkwardly to the floor, a lance of pain shooting up his leg on impact, his breath catching beneath a burning rib. His left hand was at the back of his neck, pulling chunks of ice out from inside his collar. He threw them aside and raised his eyes upwards, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl.

It was a boy, one of the ones from before, and he held an upturned cup in his hand. It was still dripping.

House glared at him, feeling his cheeks burn, knowing that he must have gone sheet-white. He knew he was trembling, knew he was consciously holding away unpleasant memories. Grabbing for the edge of the table, he pulled himself to his feet and snatched his cane from where it lay.

He limped forward, his eyes locked with the boy's, aware that the kid wasn't moving, wasn't blinking, only rooted to the spot.

He drew closer, raising his hand…

* * *

_**Author's Note- Sorry to do that to you, guys, but I've been out of state for a few days and I'm catching up with everything I missed. Yeah, the chapter's shorter than I meant it to be, but I wanted to get something up as soon as possible. So… Thanks to all who reviewed, including **_Emerald124, Bloody Koalas, DragonHunter200, Blackrose Kitsune , 'Katie The Anonymous One' (LOL) Aqua Mage, Boys Don't Cry,_**and new reviewers **_Lexi, Spicycute199, and EliH2_** For you new peoples, welcome to the party. Grab a chair, watch out for my overenergetic muse, (and don't accept anything he might offer you.) Oh yes, and a big congratulations to **_Aqua Mage_**, who is the person to hit review 100! Email me with a few ideas, and I'llgrab one or more and stick it in the chapter for you! Next prize goes out at review marks 150 and two hindred, with similar rewards. Alrighties? **_

_**In the next chapter… '**__sheets, weave, hiss__**,' and the phrase: **__He shook his head, his body language betraying his awkwardness. "But… I was forgetting… This is – this isn't real."_

_**Laters!**_

_**-P'Bantonox.**_


	12. Clash

_**DISCLAIMER- 'D' is just because I don't have proof, 'O' is only cos I'm in my youth, 'N' is very very… 'ntraveniary, 'T' is what I drink when I am trying hard to think so I say…**_

'_**DON'T' is all the license I have now, 'DON'T,' the tribute that the law allows… I can write, I'll make it, read my fic but please don't break it.**_

_**House**__** belongs to FOX, it's true…**_

-----------o

_Storm… rain and wind… driving sheets, stinging against his face…_

_Pain._

_He knew that what he was seeing wasn't real, and yet… and yet…_

_Squaring his shoulders, he turned his face into the rain, squinting down towards his feet. He was wearing his lab coat and dress shirt, a loosely knotted tie looped around his neck. The wind screamed past his ears, and shadows flicked by him at impossible speed – something in the back of his head told him they were leaves. Perhaps… perhaps they were from the skeleton trees that reached bony fingers to the sky all around him, framing the way to a pantomime cutout of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital._

_A figure stood by cookie-cutter doors, leaning against the wall as if waiting for him. As he drew closer he saw that it was – it was… Julie._

_He looked away, swallowing nervously, his hands hidden in his pockets. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say, words came easily, words were the material to weave the truth around. He…_

"_Hello, Julie." The words slipped out without his permission, his treacherous legs carrying him closer. He didn't hate her. And maybe that was why he didn't want to be here._

" _James..."_

_He wiped a rivulet of water away from his eye, his hand automatically flying to his head to smooth his already-matted hair. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't know. If I'd known –"_

"_You would have stayed. You would have cared."_

"_I always cared." He couldn't help himself, bringing his eyes up to meet hers. That was when he noticed that there was something different about her. Something… wrong."You look different."_

_Julie shrugged. "I haven't changed much. You were never there to notice. How do you know this isn't what I –"_

"_I know." He shook his head sharply, sending droplets of water flying. "I WAS there for you… I just…" He broke off. "I wasn't there all the time. I… needed to help others too."_

_She laughed, raising a cane to point at him. "Wonderful explanation. It's no wonder you lost me. The three things you say before the wedding – you never said I was going to be your third divorce. You never said you were going to cheat on me."_

"_St-stop. I never meant for things to happen like that."_

"_You never do. And Sammi in Pediatrics doesn't know that you're taking one of the new Oncology interns out to dinner tomorrow."_

_Wilson blanched, wiping rain from his face. "It… it's nothing. Honest. I'm-I'm-I'm just helping her get comfortable with the job shift."_

"_Yes. But Sammi wouldn't think that. And for that matter, neither does the new intern."_

_That caught him off-guard. He stared into her blue eyes, (_blue?_) and found them inhospitable. "I… didn't know."_

"_No. And you didn't bother to find out."_

"_I – " He stared at her. "You _have_ changed." He frowned. "You've got short hair. A sort of brownish grey."_

"_Really?" Julie raised a hand to her head, rain dripping off of her arm as she moved it. She kept it there._

"_And-and a black jacket. You weren't wearing that when I first saw you…" _

_Oh._

"_And… um… a beard."_

_Julie looked up at him, a slight smile on gaunt features. "What, me? A beard?"_

"…_Yes." He shook his head, his body language betraying his awkwardness. "But… I was forgetting… This is – this isn't real."_

_Julie pulled out a pill bottle, popped a Vicodin, was House. "Of course not," he murmured. "But this… _This is_." He pulled his hand away from the back of his head, and it came away bright red. "I'm sorry, Wilson."_

_He stared at the crimson caking the man's palm, his own hands, darkly aware that the rain refused to wash it away, felt his legs go weak, swayed, fell._

_Red._

_Everything was red._

"_God, I'm so sorry…"_

House reached out and snatched the cup from the boy's hand, glancing inside and sniffing it. "Ice water," he growled. He took another step forwards, his hand gripping his cane hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "_What the hell do you think you were doing?_" He dropped the cup to the ground, his hands trembling too much to hold it. _"Do you –"_ He glanced away, swallowed, tried again."Do you have any idea –" He broke off once more, the simple word 'why' caught in his throat.

"…sorry…"

"Sorry?" House scowled at him. "Yeah, sorry's a good beginning. I want an explanation."

The boy rocked from side to side, his eyes at his feet, his hands twisting restlessly behind his back.

He glanced over to the other table. "Your friends put you up to this, didn't they?"

"Ntm'frns…" the boy mumbled.

"Not your friends? I've heard that one before."

"_No'rly_…"

"Shut up! I don't care. _Really_. They get kicked out, and you get to pay my dry-cleaning bill. That was a stupid thing to do. Next time you want your friends' approval, go climb a tree or get a girl or something." He reached out and grabbed the boy's wrist, careful to keep his grip moderate. It was almost instinct, to want to

– _lash out, run – _

…but he was way past that, wasn't he…?

_Aren't you?_

House growled and dropped the boy's hand. "No bracelet. You're not a patient." He paused, letting his breath hiss between his teeth. "I _know_ you from somewhere, though. What's your name?"

The kid glanced over his shoulder, took a half-step backwards, turned to run –

House reached out with his cane and hooked his arm, spinning him around and knocking him off-balance. He stumbled against a table before catching himself.

"J-Jsn'Rnlds," he stammered, and took off.

_Jason Reynolds… _Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes, hearing the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. He let his head drop, forced himself to untense, breathed out again, his eyes flicking open once more.

Letting his teeth catch at his upper lip, he looked around. _Oh, hell_. A stab of annoyance, a wave of embarrassment

– _a flash of fear –_

but he was fine, just fine. Like he cared that people were staring

– _wearing that look of helpless pity, a noble but empty gesture –_

He had his own life, and if they didn't care enough to step in, they should stay out. No doubt some of them had seen it coming.

_Isn't that always the way it goes? _House sighed sharply and stiffened his posture, limping towards the exit. All eyes were on him. Again._ Don't they have their own lives?_

On his way out, he stopped at Mohawk's table. "Congratulations," he growled, "But you better start running. I'm Doctor House, Head of Diagnostics at this hospital, and you are in it _so deep…_" A flicker of a smile passed over his lips and then he was gone, out into the hospital hallway, using his anger as a shield to keep old memories away…

…_Cold nightmares…_

---------------o

_Ooh, here's me taking a step… a big step… No goin' back now… How twisted am I:D_

_Yups. 'Course, if you don't like the direction I'm going, just say so in your review, and maybe I'll stop._

_Maybe I won't._

_Because here's the thing. I lied, before. I don't have a new muse. I __am__ the muse. I've achieved full integration with my subject and now have full access to her abilities. Cool, huh? No more waiting to see if she'll pay attention to me… now I can use all that untapped power for myself!_

_Buahahahaha!!!!_

_Thank you to all who reviewed, Bloody Koalas thatonegirl005, Aqua Mage… you have fed me well! And thanks especially to the new reviewers, Tarica and Alien Angie … Fresh blood!_

_I— Augh!!!_

…

_**Okay… sorry about that, my muse got loose. Again. Don't worry, it's safe to come out now, he's restrained. Hopefully I can have the next chapter up as quickly as this one… who knows! evil grin Y'know, I think I sort of did it again? Well, didn't mean to. Eheheh… **_

_**Next chapter… '**__haze, clinic, reprimand,' __**and the phrase **__"I'm supposing that as soon as I step through those doors, everything goes to hell."_

_**See you next time!**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	13. Acclimatize

_**Disclaimer –Ees? Sdrawrof dna sdrawkcab ti wonk I dna . Tib elttil a ton, **__**Esuoh**__** nwo t'nod I!**_

_**o**__**-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------**__**o**_

He was slumped in his office chair, his cane drumming a vicious beat on the glass surface of the desk. _Not the fever, not the white count. Not the –_

It was only a slight barrier in his ability to breathe, but he felt it coming. He sucked in a sharp breath, his teeth gritted, muscles tense. _Here it comes, back for another…_

The pain came back in another wave, flaring across his chest, momentarily stopping his breathing. Seconds passed, a spike of panic followed by adrenaline, a

– _familiar feeling, not knowing when it was safe to move –_

…when would it pass, when could he breathe again without feeling his rib send angry phonecalls to his nervous system, dammit dammit dammit–

…And then it all just faded away. Almost. A choked growl escaped his lips, but he'd known worse than this.

"Damn kid!" he barked, wincing as he did so. _Stupid, stupid…_ If he hadn't fallen, no, scratch that, if he hadn't reacted…

_What? Wouldn't have met up with a skeleton in the closet? Scared to focus on the past? Scared of jumping to the tune of a –_

"Nope, right," he growled out loud. "Scared, that's it. Except, admitting my faults… that's one of those things I don't do. Righto, Housey-boy? Don't want to spoil my image. Don't want to…"

– _To what, boy? –_

House snapped his head to the side, felt his breath spike again, his heart racing. His hands had come up to the side of his head, hovering, waiting, and he nervously rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He knew he was being anxious, paranoid even. _PTSD,_ he rationalized. _Just been through a traumatic event and it was bound to catch up with me somehow. And having a complete stranger …attack… me, well, just the final trigger. Cold water's a memory cue. Vivid emotions, irrational fears. Symptomatic._

"To hell with the past," he reminded himself, "think of the present. Andrea Cathanis. _You,_ you know what'll make you feel better, and you can self-medicate after she's cured. Vicodin, bourbon, and a nice, warm DVD player…" And as an afterthought, he added "And stop talking to yourself." He would have smiled. Almost.

_Andrea… White count normal, moderate ANA, fever and elevated temperature show that her body recognizes an infection. We ruled out bacterial…mostly. It's not progressing in the way most protozoal infections would, so there goes Cuddy's suggestion. Although… CMV, there's an idea. Cytomegalovirus. Explains the anemia. She doesn't have hepatomegaly, though, so…_

_Paul Orcino, on the other hand… His temperature's barely elevated. He's got half the symptoms Andrea has… Could indicate later exposure, or perhaps… perhaps a different strain. Perhaps his immune system's stronger than hers, or she might have been recovering from a previous illness. Orange tint to the urine… could be similar, or –_

"…could be because he got an _internal injury_ when a whole bunch of rocks dropped on him. Easy answer." Somehow, saying it out loud made it feel like he was making progress. "Slow clotting could be a vitamin deficiency, and the blood pressure, well, he's just been through something traumatic. Skin lesions, it's an allergic reaction. He's a hiker, he gets poison ivy. _Done_."

_But that still leaves Andrea. And as much as you'd like to dismiss his symptoms, they might just be related to hers._

House leaned back in his chair, balancing his cane on the tip of his index finger. _Doesn't fit CMV. Not perfectly. Transmission, though, it would make more than enough sense for them both to have it… HIV also falls into that category. Could be, but…_

The cane moved to his middle finger.

_Epstein-Barr. Definitely not. No renal involvement, and the blood-work's all wrong. _

Ring finger.

_Hepatitis fits… ish… Like everything else, there's too much missing. I just need a little more…_

Pinky.

…_time._

The cane fell.

**o:-:-:-:-:-:-:-O-:-:-:-:-:-:-:o**

"He's… stable…"

_The words flickered to him in a grey haze, his perception slurred, his mind grasping at any outside influence to use as an anchor to the outside world._

"_Yeah, you want to wake up. I get it. Your system's not gonna let you, though. Any efforts you make are only gonna stress you, and you'll end up in here for a while longer yet."_

_Wilson stared up at him from his position on the ground. He was slowly sinking into the mud, rust-colored rain playing over his upturned face, making him blink away what could have easily been tears. "Oh… oh god… Th-th-this is impossible," he muttered. "Dreams don't last this long. At the emotional peak, chemical shifts in the body should have dissolved the dream. The post-adrenal low would put me in a deeper state of sleep…"_

"_Nuh-uh," House reprimanded him. "If this _was_ a dream, maybe. You're in a medically induced sleep. They'll wake you up in a day, but you're beat up pretty bad. No, since you're in a sort of coma, your brain's got nothing else to do but to keep itself busy. Hence, here we are."_

_He closed his eyes and sighed. "Great."_

"_Of course, if you hadn't had such violent nightmares when you were admitted, we wouldn't be here right now. You've got serious issues, dude." He took a step forwards and held out a hand. "…You should probably get up, too. Otherwise you're just gonna keep sinking…"_

_Wilson reached up, taking House's hand. He wasn't sure if the man would be able to pull him free, but somehow he managed to make the mud relinquish its grip. With a loud squelching noise, he felt the earth let him go._

"_Thanks."_

_House eyed him over. "Yeah, sure…" He shrugged. "Why don't we go inside? You can get cleaned up."_

"_Is it just as messed up in there as it is out here?"_

_He turned, staring at Wilson with a slight smirk. "Oh yeah," he grinned, "but at least it's not raining in there… yet."_

_As if by command, the doors to the clinic slid open, revealing a full waiting room. House held out a hand, stopping him in his tracks."Before you go in… take a look around. Looks normal, right?"_

"_Y-yeah…" He raised a hand to his head, shrugging. "I'm supposing that as soon as I step through those doors, everything goes to hell."_

"_Probably."_

"_Probably?" Wilson glanced up at him, frowning. "Why probably?"_

"_Well," he shrugged, "I've never actually been in there."_

_That caught him by surprise, made him pause. "You work here. A-at the hospital. How can you –"_

"_I work at PPTH, not this twisted little version that you've got floating around your subconscious… Metaphorically, of course, 'cause you know, I'm not actually…" He gestured awkwardly with his hands. "…not actually… _here_. 'Course, it would be kind of cool, if I could pop in whenever I wanted…"_

_Wilson felt a wave of goosebumps pass over him, and he frowned. He was getting that feeling again, like… something was out of place, something was wrong._

"Of course_ something's wrong –" House snapped, and then looked away. "Sorry. Shouldn't have done that. But the point is, yeah, you're here for a reason. You've got a problem, and figuring it out right now, before you wake up, it's the best solution."_

"_And what you just did… you – "_

"_Picked up on your surface thoughts. I apologized, didn't I? Anyways, it's not like I can do it all the time. Just grabbed hold of a really strong emotion, that's all." He rolled his eyes irritably. "Here's the part where I stop hinting. _Get going. _Go inside, wander around, get a hold on yourself. I'll be out here if you need me."_

_The feeling blossomed. "You're not coming in?"_

"_Nope."_

"_Wh –"_

_House raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "When I said 'we' before, I was actually talking about you. I _can't_ go in. If you haven't noticed already, I've been speaking 'the voice of rationality.' Obviously I'm all for you facing up to reality and settling your issues. Which means I gotta stay out here with all the unpleasant stuff you _don't_ want to face. So, as much as I know having the truth on your side is a reassuring thing…" He raised his cane and pushed Wilson forwards. "Don't worry, I can bang comfortingly on the windows while you immerse yourself in the distractions of work to avoid your problems."_

**o:-:-:-:-:-:-:-O-:-:-:-:-:-:-:o**

Cameron wasn't in the lab, which brought several unnerving thoughts and a swear to mind. House leaned heavily on his cane as he walked, regretting his relinquishing of the morphine. Hell, it was a drag to pull the thing along behind him, but pain was even more of a distraction. He glanced down at his watch. _Ten thirty-seven._

_Whoa, wait. Ten thirty _AM He lifted the watch to his ear. Not a tick. "Dammit." _And then some. Jerk promised me it was waterproof. Figures. Words don't mean anything until you actually… test…_

Wordlessly, he pivoted on his heel, and flagged down a passing nurse. "D'you know what time it is?"

"Twelve forty-one – "

"Thanks," he muttered, but he was already out of earshot. He knew where Cameron was. And Chase too, most likely. Damn. Right about now, he'd normally be in the clinic. And he'd made a deal with Cuddy…

**o---O---o**

He hovered for the barest fraction outside the Exam Room One before knocking. A second later, he shrugged, and pulled open the door.

"House!"

He frowned apologetically and backed out. "Wrong room." And there he paused. "Oh, and Dr. Reynolds, can I call you to my office for a consult, tomorrow, noon? 'Preciate it."

The next door down, Exam Room Two, was open already, with a tired-looking Cameron deep in conversation. House knocked on the door. "Lab results?"

Cameron looked up. "Hello, House. Sorry, Cuddy got me on the way back. Here." She tossed him a folder, and he caught it by his fingertips. "How did you –"

"I could hear you caring. I followed the sound." He shot her a slight smile, but she didn't return it. "How serious is this patient that you've been treating her for…" he glanced at the file "half an hour?"

"Mrs. Andrews –"

"Has acid reflux. Difficult to diagnose. …Oops, I gave it away."

"Her son died yesterday."

"Were you her son's doctor?"

"No– car accident – what? You're the last person to complain about wasting clinic time… I'm just –"

"…Comforting her?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "Okay." Adjusting his grip on his cane, he turned, limping out into the waiting room. He thought he heard something, but he kept moving. Exam Room Three was on the other side of the space. And provided that nobody recognized him before he got there –

"Excuse me?"

_Crap. Maybe if I keep moving he'll see that I'm busy, and –_

"Doctor House?"

He turned. "Yes?" And regretted opening his mouth almost immediately.

"Doctor House, it came back…"

He sighed. "What, the transvestite, or the hangnail?"

**o****----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------****o**

_Notes- PTSD is an abbreviation for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a common affliction to those who have recently experienced something that might cause emotional or mental scarring. It usually manifests a short time after the event has taken place, and is a delayed form of shock._

_-------------------o_

_**Author's Note – Hello, all! Um… yay, I just beat Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, and now I want to write a fic about it. Except that, in no context, would I be able to write a Zelda/House crossover, and what with my schedule, I wouldn't be able to write anything that wasn't House –related. I mean, I could, but when I'm in a House mood, I only write House, so… Oh well.**_

_**I've also just finished season two in my House marathon, and I'm on season three now, episode eleven, 'Words and Deeds.' I just want to thank you all for getting me back into this!**_

_**Thanks to **_Tarica, Bloody Koalas, Aqua Mage, Boys Don't Cry, and Emerald124,_** for taking the time out to read and review. No new people at the party after last chapter. Shame, shame… Hopefully that'll change… And for all of you out there who don't respect the second half of R R, my muse is gonna be stalking you for the rest of the week. Remember, free refreshments, Vicodin, and your name on a shiny plaque at the end of the chapter if you review! (note, I feel so weird saying this! I**_

_**No text previews for next chapter, sorry. I haven't really gotten that far, due to evil Latin work. However, both Wilson and House are in the next chapter. House has some clinic time, Wilson enters the 'hospital…' and wishes he hadn't… Vicodin, panic, and latex gloves ensue.**_

_**-P'Bantonox**_


	14. Shallow Water

_**Disclaimer: I do not own **__**House**__**. I do, however, hold several other characters, which I decline to refer to by name. How then do I assert their individuality? Umm… It's a secret.**_

**_Warning: This chapter is rated for slightly disturbing content. Just bein' polite..._**

**o****--****o**

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

House twirled his cane in his hands and rapped at the door again. "Chase?"

Nobody answered.

"Chase, let me in. There's a mime after me. I know you're in there…" He glanced over his shoulder and sighed. "All right, fine. I'll use the door handle." He pushed the door open and stuck his head inside. "There you are. Momma's been all worried… no note, no letter, you never called…"

"_House_. What is it?"

He leaned back against the wall, noticing that Chase's Australian lilt had grown stronger as he spoke. _Little things…_ "You're in a bad mood. I take it you weren't able to do the tests?"

"Yeah." He leaned forwards, sliding a needle into the forearm of a teenage boy… a boy who looked a bit familiar. "Cuddy told me she made a _deal_ with you? How are we supposed to run labs if we're in here?"

"In secret? Or… you could wait until you get out _and then_ do the labs." The look he received was less than appreciatory. "See it this way," he began, "Both of you do two hours instead of my full three, right? I can't do them, cos _dude, I'm all beat up!_" He broke off, staring at the patient. "Chase. The chart." He snatched it away, flipped it open.

"What's wrong?"

House glanced up. "He's an idiot, and it's gonna kill him someday. Not today, but it's not the fiber deficiency that's causing his problems."He turned. "Kid. You cool? Skater boy, ride a bike, that stuff?"

The boy nodded slightly. "Yeah, absolutely."

"Well, take a look at this. Ran some tests last time you were here. Here's the results of your tests. This kind of damage to the intestine, coupled with the lacerations around your anus…" He paused for effect. "Bicycle pump… Or a reversible vacuum." The expression on the boy's face betrayed his answer even before he opened his mouth to deny it. "'Pumping' is just another one of the stupid things people do to feel good. And as far as stupid goes, well, you can do some real damage. Not just bowel blockage, the stress on the intestinal walls, possibility of creating diverticulae every time you poke yourself too hard getting in there, chance of infection…"

House glanced to the side, taking in Chase's reaction. He was frowning slightly, not sure whether to be offended or interested. _Obviously a new one on him. Could joke about it after the kid leaves, but… nah._ He scribbled a few things down and tossed the folder back to Chase.

"I thought it was harmless. No drugs, no solid objects…"

He smirked back at the kid. "You want to feel good, go do something a little more socially acceptable. There's no such thing as risk-free. You keep riding the air, you're gonna pop a wheelie, and then you're gonna be one sick dude. Got it?"

The boy nodded.

"Good. And yeah, I recognize you…" He smirked. "Tell Mohawk I say hi."

**o:-:-:-:-:-:-:-O-:-:-:-:-:-:-:o**

_It was recognizably PPTH, yes. But the moment he stepped through the double doors, they slid shut with a finality that suggested they would not open for some time. House smiled sadly at him from the other side. He was on his own._

_The room was as it had been the last time he'd seen it, but the patients… the patients all had one thing in common. They were all facing him._

"_Hello," he said cautiously, "I'm Doctor Wilson."_

_A few of them waved. A few responded. Some just stood there, looking very much the same as he had seen them when he came in. It was only as he drew closer that he realized that there was no depth to his perception. They were paper-thin, cardboard cutouts of an ailing crowd. And yet, the way they acted, just as any other person might…_

"_House was right," he muttered, wondering if the name was appropriate in a world like this. "This place is crazy."_

"_Speak for yourself. You're late." A caricature of Doctor Cuddy had exited her office and was now staring at him. For a moment, he considered the idea that whatever part of his mind had summoned up the House he had met before had also designed her. As if reading his glance, she frowned. "Hold on a moment," she said, and went back into her office. When she came out again, she looked as he remembered her. At least… she looked normal._

"_Wilson," she said quietly, "Why are you here?"_

"_I'm guessing the explanation 'I work here' doesn't apply."_

"_No."_

_He shuffled his feet nervously, a hand resting on the table next to him. "If there was a logic to this place, you'd know it, being administrator and all, right?"_

"_Probably."_

"_Probably…?" He shook his head. "All right. What do I do?"_

"_Do what you normally do. Your job."_

_Wilson shrugged. "Go to my office, do paperwork, treat patients?"_

"_Yes."_

_He didn't reply, just nodded, taking the file that she held out and walking the clinic. The way he tried to take every aspect of the room in, he was sure he must look like a tourist in a big city. The longer he stared at any specific detail, the more it warped, changed. He soon gave up and left the clinic, entering the hallway, stepping into a crowded elevator…_

"_Hi, I'm Ariel. What's your name?"_

_He glanced down, seeing the familiar gleam of a head freed of its hair by chemotherapy. The speaker was a little girl in a wheelchair. "I'm Doctor Wilson," he smiled. "Are you on your way upstairs too?"_

"_Uh-huh. If you're Doctor Wilson, you're my new doctor. I'm being referred."_

"_Oh good. Friendly faces are always welcome, and if we've already been introduced…" He turned and smiled warmly at her. "Let's see if we can make you comfortable during your stay."_

**o--O--o**

_His office seemed to him to be a safe haven, free of changes, cut off from the rest of the hospital. It was only as he saw a cow signal the elevator, followed by its attending , that he realized how grateful he was for a lock on the door._

_He leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. House, as usual, had a point, however disagreeable it was. As always._

_A sudden rap against the window made him sit up, startled._

_House was on the balcony outside, dry-erase marker in hand, scrawling a message across the door. He caught Wilson's eye and beckoned._

_ARE YOU DONE YET?_

_Wilson stood up and leaned against the door, perhaps not too surprised that it didn't open. He returned to his desk and grabbed a marker of his own, but instead of writing, he slipped it into his pocket. "These doors aren't airtight," he said loudly._

_I KNOW__, House wrote. "…but it bugs you." He finished the sentence aloud. "And you can't wipe it off."_

"_I know. And you can't wipe _this_ off." __Greg House is annoying._

"_You do know that you're supposed to write it backwards... Anyway, 'gniyonna' isn't much of an insult."_

"_It wasn't meant as one. I'm actually happy to see you. Everything is weird in here. Not in any significant way, either. Just… messed up. You told me I should come in here and – and it's done nothing. How is this helping me?"_

_House inclined his head, eyes still fixed on Wilson. "How can you go deep-sea diving if you've never been in the water before?"_

"_You're saying I'm… in the kiddie pool."_

"_Only until you learn how to swim."_

"_So this is training. Well, I'd like to pick up my sword and slay some demons now."_

"_How do you get from ocean metaphors to medieval? You can't swim in a suit of armor."_

"_The metaphors are irrelevant –"_

"_No, they aren't. How do you expect to manage in a world where symbolism is key? For instance, before you went in, you were covered in mud. When you got in, you were miraculously clean. It's a metaphor in itself. You involve yourself in your work to avoid the stresses of your personal life." He paused, waiting for Wilson to reply. When it didn't happen, he shrugged, his eyes darkening. "It's obvious. How can you –"_

"_I know it's obvious. I'm thinking. Give me a moment."_

"_What's the point? You've gotta be sure you know what you're doing. You can die in here, has that occurred to you? Your brain thinks it's real. There really_ is_ no alternative unless you want to sit in one spot and wait for the doctors to wake you."_

**o:-:-:-:-:-:-:-O-:-:-:-:-:-:-:o**

He was on the way out of the clinic when the woman waved at him. He would have kept walking, but… _God._

"Doctor House."

He paused, looked longingly at the clinic doors as if to prove that he _really did_ want to leave. He was smiling slightly when he faced her. "Yes," he said after a moment, "that's me. Can I ask…"

"Jess Albion. You came highly recommended, and, well…" She looked wistfully up at him. "Someone told me you were the best."

He couldn't help himself but raise an eyebrow. He could tell she was flirting, putting on that 'I'm sick, help me' act. It didn't make her any less beautiful, though. Her body language spoke measures about her. _And what a body to measure!_ He –

"Doctor House? Can you help me?"

"Probably. But the thing of it is… I'm not on duty today."

"The schedule said you were."

"_Mmn_… I _was_. Switched out. Bad day, bum leg… There are two highly recommended doctors taking my shift. And one not so, but you don't really have to worry about him. Just having daddy troubles, that's all. And as for the Aussie, well, he's just getting over a breakdown, so you might want to stay away from him for a while. Just leaves Doctor Cameron, actually." He shrugged. "Anyways, after she figures out what's wrong with you…"

"What?"

"Nothing. Just rethinking. Thinking I might be able to fit you in."

"I figured," she said softly, and winked.

"See, that's exactly the reason I'll take your case."

**o****--****o**

_**Author's Note- Aah, sorry! I haven't updated in some time… ((blushes shamefully)) My life right now is **__**evil**__** busy and... well, you don't really want to know all my excuses, do you? Suffice it to say that if I had posted anything up until now, it probably would have been crap. It's hard to write when you've been forced to do it for a set amount of time on a boring subject… Not that I'm saying I was forced here, no, I'm talking about an outside project, and one that doesn't involve you guys. Probably.**_

_**Ah, now here's the part where I frown and smirk at the same time. Anyone know what the season finale is? Think maybe it sounds a little familiar? **__**How about two years ago, my fic 'Security' and Jack Moriarty? **__**Maybe I'm a little unnerved here.**_

_**No preview for next chapter, sorry, I'm a little behind so I posted this as soon as I wrote it.**_

**_Thanks, as usual, to those who reviewed, I'll post your names next chapter :)_**

_**Laters, -P'Bantonox.**_


	15. Progression

_He had his back to the wall. Nowhere to run. But he wouldn't run._

"_Scared, Jew-boy?"_

_He balled his hands into fists, dropping the books on the pavement. "N-no way." He knew how pathetic he must sound, but Daniel was always telling him he had to stand up for himself. "And stop calling me… that…."He faltered. "That name." Andy was leering at him, flanked by three others. The coward in him wanted to run, but…_

"_Or what?"_

_He hadn't thought that far ahead. "O-or I'll challenge you to a br… a fight. One-on-one. I've got just as much a right to m-my religion as anyone, I –"_

_Andy cut him off with a snigger. "Boy, he still thinks this is about his Jew-ness!"_

"_I do not," he countered, hoping it was the right thing to say. Andy Babino, whose favour he fell in and out of. Sometimes he only made fun of him. Sometimes…_

"_You still got those bruises?"_

_He nodded meekly, hating himself for going along with it._

"_And they didn't teach you anything?"_

_His hand wandered to his side, pulling away as a twinge struck memory. It had been at school at lunch. A pretty girl buying her food, and he'd helped her carry it over to her table. What kind of boyfriend makes his girl buy lunch for more than just herself?_

_The one in front of him. _

_Sinking feeling as the tray hit the floor... he had that sort of feeling again. "Not to help any of you or your friends, under pain of death?"_

"_Stupid! I said to keep away from Melissa. She's mine."_

"_She was gonna drop the tray." He pushed himself away from the wall, but not quick enough to avoid being pushed back to his spot, this time with a fist to keep him there._

"_Then I would have taken care of it. But that's just it. Keep outta our way, keep off our stuff, right?" There was only a second's pause, and then: "Not just you, though. Your brother."_

_He almost stammered out 'which one,' but he already knew._

"_Yeah, Timmy says he saw him talking with Mike, and you guys answer to us, not his people." The other gang. _

_He didn't mean to, but he whimpered._

"_You're gonna give your brother a message. _

o-_[H]_-o

_James stared at the ceiling, towel pressed to his face and the ice already melting. A trickle of water traced its way down the edge of his neck and soaked into the mattress. He rolled over, and groaned, as bruised muscles complained. How did he get himself into this? Was Melissa worth getting himself killed over?_

_No, of course not. But he didn't really _like_ like her, did he? Okay, so she was pretty, and they got along pretty well. But her boyfriend was a jerk, and he didn't treat her right, so any time James could spend with her, make up for the bad stuff by making her smile... that was just what friends do, right? _

_Well, it was his loss that Andy didn't see it that way._

_As for his brother... What was he doing hanging out with Mike Amrich? Cause that was a name you really didn't want to hear in the same sentence with someone you knew. If Andy had goons, Mike had _thugs._ He even got respect from some of the real gangs around here._

_And his brother? Hardly the gang type either. Sometimes James suspected the only reason he got involved was cos of him. Little Jimmy, stay out of trouble._

_He wasn't the trouble type. Really. But somehow... somehow, trouble seemed to find him._

_Somewhere downstairs, the door slammed._

"_Anyone home?"_

"_It's me," he shouted, his voice cracking._

_James sat up. At last, a welcome voice. Footsteps on the stairs. Maybe he could explain what was going on. Maybe his father would be that quiet, accepting ear he needed. God, if it was his mother, he'd never hear the end of it. But the voice was male. What luck._

_But when the door opened, everything he planned to say evaporated. Instead of the worn smile of his father, there was a strange, scruffy man with a cane, and he looked angry._

_When Mother came home, he'd hear bloody murder. Letting strangers in the house..._

"_How... who...?"_

"_Cut the crap, Wilson. This isn't where you're supposed to be."_

_For the second time, the world seemed to shift under his gaze, the bed too short for him now, the room reduced to the familiar greyscale of memory. And underneath it all, he had the oddest sensation that there was some distinction he should be making, some connection he might have missed._

_Maybe his newest oldest only best friend would tell him what it was._

"_House, you..." His gaze wandered the cramped quarters of a place he thought he'd never see again. "How'd I...?"_

_Something softened in those blue eyes, if only by a little. "Sure you don't want to go back to the kiddie pool?"_

"_I don't remember getting here."_

"_I threw you in."_

"_Metaphorically?"_

"_Meta_physically_. You should have at least realized you knew what was coming next, you idiot. From there, you could have found your way back." A moment's pause. "Or at the very least, dodged that punch."_

_The mattress beneath him felt lumpy in all the wrong places. He pushed himself backwards, trying to find someplace marginally better, and motioned for House to join him. It didn't happen. Smart._

"_So where next?"_

"_Do you really think I'd tell you?"_

"_Well, at least tell me what I'm supposed to be looking for! You obviously know, otherwise you wouldn't be pushing me around like this!"_

_House limped the perimeter of the room, at last coming to rest at the bookshelf in the corner. He pried a book free from between its cramped cousins, and tossed it across the room._

_He caught it, his eyes flicking up the binding. "Cinderella?"_

_A lopsided grin spread itself across the man's face. "I'm not sure what's more alarming – that you haven't figured it out yet... or that you owned that book."_

"_I didn't!" he protested. "Wait... are you saying I'm Cinderella?"_

"_No, you're the fairy godmother." A moment's silence. "A very messed up fairy godmother. With no magic powers. There _is_ a Cinderella, though. More than one."_

_Wilson snapped the book shut, tossing it to the floor with a flick of the wrist. "Yes, I go around curing curses and falling in love with my charges. And they lived miserably ever after. It's nothing you haven't told me already. What happened to the universally blunt House?"_

"_Think I don't want to shove it in your face? Even if I could, how would it help you for me to just give you the answer? You'd never accept it."_

"_Try me."_

_House frowned and began to speak, but it was if somebody had hit mute on a television. His mouth was moving, but nothing came out. After a moment's pause, he cleared his throat and changed tact. "See? Can't say anything you aren't willing to consider on your own –"_

"_Some 'House' you are –"_

" –_but I can point you in the right direction. Deal with it, and move on. And when it's over, I'll even give you a little push, so you can wake up all chipper and ready to own up."_

_Wilson pushed himself to his feet, feeling for all the world suddenly claustrophobic. A magical mystery tour hosted by House. It was either hell, or..._

_Nope, definitely hell. "Fine. Just get this over with."_

"_Atta boy."_

_And then there was nothing._

o-_-_-_[H]_-_-_-o

He sat on the stool in exam room three, running his hand along that silky-smooth, oh-so-shapely leg. His fingertips probed muscle and tendon, aware that next to that to that flawless bronze, his own skin seemed pale. He followed the _gracialis_ dangerously close to her thighs, then swept down to her lower leg, trailing his index finger along the curve of her _gastrocnemius,_ and then back up along the _soleus._

She winced, and the moment was lost. _Interesting._

"You've got a first-grade calf strain," House announced. "Stay off the tennis for a few weeks, wear a special insole, and you'll be good as new."

Her hand came down, brushed against his, lingered. "Is that all?"

"Well," he muttered, "you could always try sports therapy, massages."

He knew that look. _Be serious, _it said. He'd gotten it enough times from Wilson –

His mood sputtered and died. "What do you want?"

A look of injured innocence from her. God, she was good. Maybe this was worth his effort after all.

"I'm sorry?"

"I can write this stuff down, but you're the one that's going to have to do something about it. It's a physical injury. They don't make pills for those yet."

He let the words hang in the air, saw exactly the reaction he'd predicted.

"Oh, there is one thing, though."

House drew himself up to his full height, his knuckles white as they gripped the lonely curve of his cane. "Dinner. Seven o'clock. Doing anything?"

He watched her posture, saw the ever-so-subtle shifts. "Well, that's a little fast –"

"Oh, come on. I asked you to dinner, not sex. That can come later." He took a deep breath, weighed the words on his tongue_. How to say this_... "I, uh, need the company. Got a lot on my mind right now, and there's nobody else I could ask." Was that a nod he saw? "Well, except for my team. But that could get awkward."

"So you asked me?"

"Don't worry. All you have to do is sit there and act social. No biggie. _I'm_ the one who has issues with that."

She looked him over, her stunning green eyes playing the part of an x-ray. For a moment he thought she would say no.

She held out her hand.

"Are you buying?"

o-_[H]_-o

The room felt separate to the rest of the hospital, as if a heavy curtain lay between the bustle out there, and the undisturbed calm within. Apart from the steady beep of the monitors, there was very little noise. The curtains were drawn, and a fine rain misted the windowpane, but none of that was important. Not with these glass walls between him and the rest of the world.

House leaned back in the wheelchair, his hand moving over his leg almost automatically.

"You going to come in, or just stand there all day?"

Cameron slid the door open and stepped inside. "Cuddy let us off duty without a fight. What did you say?"

House shrugged. "Didn't say boo. You bring the whiteboard?"

"Got it. I –" She broke off, staring pointedly at his new mode of transport. House remained resolutely silent, and she turned her attention to the sole occupant of the room. "It's Wilson," she said.

The two Vicodin leapt past his teeth and balanced on his tongue, a pit stop on their way to a better place. "Obviously." He gave her a sharp stare, hoping she'd get the message. Then again, knowing her, it might as well have been an invitation.

"If you need time with your friend..."

"He's asleep." A cursory glance at the folder told him everything he already knew. "Not gonna wake up any time soon. Maybe it'll do him some good to hear our voices." He glanced up at the SAT monitor, the heatbeat cadence fading in from the background. "Then again, maybe not. But I have to be _someplace_ to get the news I want, and since this rib doesn't want me in my office right now..."

"You're in a wheelchair," she observed.

"Again – obviously."

"You could have asked an orderly to bring you back to your office. It's a more sensible place to continue the differential –"

"I like it better here. And so does my rib. Where's Chase?"

Cameron crossed the room, tapping a dissonant rhythm into the phone on the wall. "On his way." Dial tone, and then a hum. "Hi, Foreman? Are you busy?"

"Cameron?"

"_And House!"_ House barked.

An audible sigh. "Hello, House."

"We're waiting on Godot. In the meantime, I'm going to help you use up your minutes. You use Verizon, right?"

"He uses AT&T." Chase had arrived.

"Actually," Foreman began... "I –"

"Doesn't matter what service Foreman has," Cameron interrupted. "We have two dying patients, remember?"

He stared out into the darkening sky and frowned. "Okay then. Cameron, you're in charge of the markers. Go."

"Antigens are negative for Epstein-Barr, but I got a positive result for CMV."

"And yet we're not celebrating."

"False positive. I accounted for the IgG factor, and the test came back negative." She crossed the two off and looked over at Chase.

He sighed, and shrugged away his answer. "You were right. No _E. coli_, and no _C. perfringens_ either."

"What about the seizure," Foreman began.

"Already attributed to the fever." Chase gestured pointlessly to the board.

House grabbed onto the idea. "Right, but we were treating her for Leptospirosis. The treatment for which is..."

"Antiobiotics."

"Beefed up her immune system enough to resist whatever it is that's attacking her."

"And," House continued, "Gives us a clue as to what it is. If it reacts to antibiotics, there's a good chance it's... well... _biotic._"

The Aussie cleared his throat. "I just finished telling you –"

"I heard you the first time. Go draw blood. Check for the things you didn't check, recheck the things you _did_ check, and get back to me when you have the answers. Meanwhile, let's get her on a broad-spectrum until we know what to fix."

"There's only one problem."

House looked up, hoping Chase wasn't gonna say what he thought he was.

"Her BP's high and she's having trouble clotting. Once we get her to bleed, we might not be able to make her stop."

"Then spin her urine. Lots of blood in there, right?"

Chase frowned. "_Damaged _blood. It had to go through a lot to end up in her urine."

"I thought you might say that. And I give you an alternative." House kicked the wheelchair into a spin. "You can't bleed her... but you can bleed _him._"

"The boyfriend? We're not even sure they have the same thing," Cameron protested.

"They've only just gotten him stable." Foreman's voice drifted in through the dizzy blur. "He lost almost two pints of blood on the way over, and you want them to take away more?"

"I'd want _you_ to do it if you were here. But since you're not, you might as well go back and investigate a little bit more. Swab the walls, check the car..." He gripped the sides of the chair as the familiar whine of pain mingled with dizziness and nausea. Maybe it was time to stop. "Oh, and get some blood from her cat, too. Only member of the household we haven't met. Maybe Fluffy will tell us something new."

"You're thinking parasites?"

"Been thinking it for a while now. Just because you didn't find anything in the fecal doesn't mean they aren't there. The boyfriend's blood should give us an idea of what we're up against."

House waited a few seconds, and levered himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. "Oh, by the way. Going out tonight – romantic dinner, _very_ expensive restaurant. So don't call unless it's an emergency." He grinned wickedly, and limped off in the opposite direction. _Let them puzzle over _that_ one for a while..._

_

* * *

_

_**A/N- Wow, it's been a long time. But I'm back. Back like I promised I would be. And yeah, it's been a terribly long time, and yes, I do feel quite guilty, but if you want to hear me rationalize and spit out excuses, go read chapter 13 of Security. **___

_**If you're a new reader, as I'm sure you probably are, welcome to my story! I hope you enjoy the ride! And on the off chance that you're a returning reader, you have my eternal gratitude, and you have no idea how happy I am to see you again. Thanks for not giving up on me.  
**_

_**I'm going to finish this story... I gave my word... but don't worry. It's not half over yet - and I plan to update regularly (or else suffer the wrath of a new, and quite irritable muse...)**_

_**Hope to see you all soon... and remember - the more reviews I get, the faster I'll update~!**_

**_-P'Bantonox_  
**


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